Principal photography on The Pacific had ended quietly.
One day the call sheets simply stopped coming, the uniforms were returned, and the controlled chaos that had defined Henry's life for months dissolved into something slower. Post-production would take over now—editors, sound designers, digital effects teams polishing the raw material into something whole. Explosions would be sharpened, colors corrected, moments tightened. The work would continue without him.
Henry did not feel sentimental about it. Not yet.
He sat in the back seat of a black town car, sunlight flickering through the windows as Los Angeles slid past, script open in his hands.
(500) Days of Summer.
The pages were thinner than The Pacific's. Fewer stage directions. More empty space. Dialogue that looked simple until you read it twice and realized how exposed it was.
"I don't think I can do this," Henry said, not looking up.
Jeff, seated beside him, didn't react immediately. He waited a beat—long enough to know Henry wasn't panicking, just testing the thought out loud.
"You can," Jeff said evenly. "It's a table read. Same rules as The Pacific. Sit still. Read the lines. Let them hear your voice."
Henry nodded, eyes still on the page. "I know that. It just feels… different."
Jeff smirked. "That's because it is."
Henry glanced at him. "Helpful."
Jeff shrugged. "Look, when you're acting, you disappear into the work. You've said that yourself. A reading doesn't ask for that. It just asks for presence. That's harder for some people."
Henry considered that. It wasn't wrong.
"When I'm acting," he said after a moment, "my focus narrows. There's movement, blocking, someone else's energy to react to. Here, I'm aware of the room."
"Because you're not hiding behind motion," Jeff said. "You're not supposed to."
Henry exhaled slowly, the nervous edge dulling rather than vanishing. "I sound ridiculous."
"You sound like an actor," Jeff replied. "Congratulations. You're officially high-maintenance."
Henry smiled faintly. "Good. I'd hate to be alone in that."
Jeff laughed. "Trust me, you're not. I have about eighty clients who all think their anxiety is unique."
"Eighty?" Henry asked. "How do you even manage that?"
"I don't," Jeff said bluntly. "I manage maybe twenty actively. The rest are in development, on hiatus, or between projects."
"That still sounds like a lot."
"It is. Which is why I'm picky." Jeff glanced at him. "I take on five new clients every few years. One or two last. The industry filters the rest out."
Henry absorbed that quietly. The city passed by in muted colors.
"Out of curiosity," Henry said, "do you represent anyone I'd recognize?"
Jeff hesitated, then waved it off. "A few. Shia LaBeouf. De Niro. Some people who aren't names yet. You're one of those."
Henry nodded, not sure how to respond to that.
Jeff shifted gears. "You ever think about why you left theatre? Broadway, West End—you could've stayed there."
"I did," Henry said. "But the roles felt… narrow. Film and television offered range. Risk. I didn't want to repeat myself."
"And Hollywood?"
Henry paused. "Hollywood wasn't the goal. It was the road."
Jeff studied him for a second, then looked back out the window.
They didn't speak again for the rest of the ride. Henry turned pages, rereading scenes without forcing interpretation. He wasn't trying to solve Tom Hansen yet. He was letting the character sit with him, unshaped.
The building came into view soon after.
Inside, the atmosphere was subdued but alert—the quiet before something begins. Assistants moved with purpose. Scripts were distributed. Conversations stayed low and professional.
"Henry," a voice called.
Mark Webb approached them with an easy smile. "Good morning."
Henry stood and shook his hand. "Morning."
They moved into the room together. Chairs formed a loose circle. The cast settled in. The script rested heavier in Henry's hands now—not with pressure, but with intention.
Mark cleared his throat once everyone was seated.
"Good morning, everyone. I'm Mark. This is my first feature, so if you have questions or notes, bring them up. We're figuring this out together."
There was a murmur of approval.
Richard McGonagle began the narration, his voice measured and assured.
"This is a story of boy meets girl. The boy, Tom Hansen—"
He paused, then continued.
"This is a story of boy meets girl. But you should know up front—this is not a love story."
The line landed the way it was meant to.
Henry didn't react outwardly. He didn't need to. He followed along, reading when it was his turn, listening when it wasn't. His voice stayed even. Unforced.
Somewhere along the way, the room faded again—not completely, but enough. The familiar rhythm returned. Cue. Line. Pause.
This I can do.
When the reading ended, there was no applause. Just a quiet release of tension.
Mark closed his script. "Great work. We'll take the next week to rehearse and make adjustments before we start filming."
A week.
Henry felt the timeline settle into place. Enough space to prepare. Enough distance to breathe.
People began to gather their things. Conversations sparked—brief, practical, calm.
Jeff leaned toward him. "You didn't rush."
Henry nodded. "Didn't feel like I needed to."
"That's film," Jeff said. "Less effort. More honesty."
Henry stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The script pressed lightly against his side, a reminder rather than a weight.
As he headed for the door, Mark caught his eye and gave a small nod. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loaded.
That was fine.
Outside, the noise of the city returned in full. Henry adjusted to it easily.
A week.
Plenty of time.