They were shooting the grocery store scene.
Columbus and Tallahassee moving through abandoned aisles. Looking for supplies. The set was dressed to look ransacked—shelves tipped over, products scattered, that post-apocalyptic emptiness.
Henry pushed a shopping cart. Columbus's methodical approach. Check every aisle. Assess threats. Stay alert.
Woody was ahead, swinging a baseball bat casually. Tallahassee looking for Twinkies. Still. Always.
"You got any better ideas?" Tallahassee asked.
"Lots of ideas," Columbus replied. "But none that involve searching for snack cakes during the zombie apocalypse."
"That's 'cause you got no joy in your life."
They ran the scene. The banter. The contrast between Columbus's anxiety and Tallahassee's reckless confidence. Ruben called adjustments. Different angles. Tighter shots.
By lunch, they'd gotten what they needed.
Henry grabbed food from catering. Sat with Emma and Abigail at one of the outdoor tables. The Georgia heat was starting to build even though it was only February.
Woody joined them. "You doing anything tonight?"
"Sleeping," Henry said. "Why?"
"Some friends are in town. We're grabbing dinner. You should come."
"Who's in town?"
"Ethan Hawke. Rick Linklater. Couple other people. Low-key thing."
Henry paused. Ethan Hawke. Richard Linklater. Not exactly low-key in his mind.
"You sure? I don't want to intrude."
"You're not intruding. I'm inviting you." Woody ate a forkful of pasta. "Seven o'clock. I'll text you the address."
"Okay. Yeah. Thanks."
"Don't overthink it. It's just dinner."
Easy for Woody to say. He'd been doing this for years. For Henry, dinner with Ethan Hawke and Richard Linklater felt significant.
But he tried to play it cool. "Sounds good."
The restaurant was tucked away in a quieter part of Atlanta. Small. Intimate. The kind of place that didn't advertise and didn't need to.
Henry arrived at seven. Woody was already there, sitting at a table in the back with three other people.
Ethan Hawke. Unmistakable. Lean. Sharp features. Casual clothes but worn with the ease of someone who didn't think about it.
Richard Linklater. Relaxed. Glasses. The energy of someone perpetually curious.
And two others Henry didn't immediately recognize. One was an actress—late thirties maybe. The other was a guy around Ethan's age.
"Henry!" Woody waved him over. "This is Henry Stein. Playing Columbus in Zombieland."
Handshakes around the table. Ethan's grip was firm. Rick's was warm.
"Henry, this is Ethan, Rick, Julie Delpy, and Wiley Wiggins."
Julie smiled. "Nice to meet you."
"You too."
Wiley nodded. "Woody's been talking about the movie. Sounds fun."
"It is," Henry said, sitting down.
The conversation picked up where it had apparently left off. Something about Austin. Rick and Ethan talking about the city. About the film scene there.
Henry listened mostly. Took in the dynamic. This wasn't a formal industry dinner. Just friends catching up. The conversation moved naturally—film, music, random tangents.
"We're here scouting locations," Rick said. "Trying to figure out if we can shoot something in Atlanta. Tax incentives are better here."
"Everything's moving to Georgia," Woody said. "Or Louisiana. Or Canada."
"Economics," Rick said. "Can't fight it."
They ordered food. Wine. The restaurant was quiet enough that they could talk without shouting. Henry ordered pasta. Tried not to overthink being at this table.
Ethan asked him about Zombieland.
"How's the shoot going?"
"Good. It's my first big studio thing. Learning a lot."
"Woody's a good scene partner," Ethan said. "He makes everyone around him better."
"He does."
"What's your background?" Julie asked. "Theater?"
"Some theater. But mostly film now. I just did an indie that premiered at Sundance."
"Which one?"
"(500) Days of Summer."
"I heard about that," Rick said. "It's structured very interestingly, right?"
"Anti-romantic comedy, yeah."
"I love that. Romance is more interesting when it doesn't work."
The conversation shifted. They talked about Sundance. About the indie film world. About the challenge of making personal work in a system that wanted safe bets.
Henry contributed when it made sense. Mostly he listened. These were people who'd been making films for years. Who had perspective he didn't.
After dinner, Rick suggested moving somewhere quieter.
"I'm staying at a house near here. We can hang there."
Everyone agreed. They paid—Woody insisted on covering Henry's portion—and walked the two blocks to Rick's rental.
The house was nice. Not huge. Comfortable. A living room with couches and chairs arranged for conversation. Rick put on music. Something jazz. Low enough to talk over.
They spread out. Woody and Wiley on one couch. Julie in a chair by the window. Rick disappeared into the kitchen and returned with beers.
Henry sat on the other couch. Ethan dropped into the chair across from him.
"So," Ethan said. "Sundance. First time?"
"Yeah."
"How was it?"
"Overwhelming. Good. The film got picked up by Fox Searchlight."
"That's great. Distribution is half the battle."
"That's what I'm learning."
Ethan sipped his beer. "The thing about film festivals is they give you this false sense of what the industry is. Everyone's excited. Everything feels possible. Then you get back to reality and realize most of it won't happen."
"Optimistic."
Ethan smiled. "Realistic. But that's not a bad thing. It means when something does happen, you appreciate it."
The others were talking across the room. Something about music. Rick was explaining a band he'd discovered. Woody was arguing good-naturedly about something.
Ethan kept talking. He had that quality—once he started, the words just came. Thoughtful. Considered. But flowing.
"I've been acting since I was a kid," Ethan said. "And the thing I've learned is that none of it matters if you're not doing it for the right reasons."
"What are the right reasons?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Ethan leaned back. "For me, it's about the work. The actual process of making something. Not the result. Not the accolades. Just the doing."
Henry nodded. He understood that.
"People get caught up in the career," Ethan continued. "The trajectory. The next role. The bigger paycheck. And that stuff matters—you have to eat. But if that's all you're chasing, you lose the plot."
"What's the plot?"
"Telling stories that matter. Working with people you respect. Making art that says something true."
It sounded almost idealistic. But Ethan said it with conviction.
"You ever feel pressure to compromise?" Henry asked.
"All the time. Every actor does. Studios want you to do the safe thing. Your agent wants you to take the money. Your ego wants you to be the star." Ethan drank his beer. "But the times I've been happiest in my career are when I've ignored all that and just followed what interested me."
"Like what?"
"Like working with Rick. We've done three films together. Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and we're talking about a third. Those films don't make money. They're small. Quiet. But they're the work I'm most proud of."
Henry had seen Before Sunrise. Loved it. Two people talking on a train and walking through Vienna. Nothing happened and everything happened.
"Those films are incredible," Henry said.
"Thanks. But they're not mine. They're collaborative. That's the thing people don't get about film. It's never just you. It's the director. The other actors. The DP. The editor. Everyone contributes."
Ethan was on a roll now. Henry could tell. The way he leaned forward. The way his words started connecting to bigger ideas.
"I think about legacy sometimes," Ethan said. "What I'll leave behind. And I don't think it's going to be the big studio films. It's going to be the small things. The work that felt personal. The risks that paid off because they meant something."
"Do you still take studio jobs?"
"Sure. I have a mortgage. I have kids. But I balance it. Do one for them, one for me. That's the trick. Stay viable in the industry while protecting your artistic soul."
He said it without irony. Like protecting your artistic soul was a real, practical concern.
"You're young," Ethan continued. "You've got time to figure this out. But start thinking about it now. What kind of actor do you want to be? What kind of career do you want?"
Henry didn't have a clean answer. He was still figuring it out.
"I don't know yet," Henry admitted.
"Good. That's honest. Just don't let the industry decide for you. You have to decide."
Across the room, Julie was telling a story about a film shoot in Paris. Something about a director who refused to plan anything. Just showed up and improvised. Everyone was laughing.
Ethan glanced over, smiled, then turned back to Henry.
"You know what the hardest part of this job is?" Ethan asked.
"What?"
"Staying curious. Staying hungry. After a while, you've done enough that you could coast. Just take the paycheck. Phone it in. But the moment you do that, you're dead as an artist."
"How do you avoid it?"
"You keep challenging yourself. You work with people who scare you. You take roles that feel impossible. You stay a student."
Henry absorbed that. Ethan was maybe fifteen years older than him. Not ancient. But enough time in the industry to have perspective.
"I'm still figuring out how to act," Henry said. "Like, the actual craft. I feel like I'm learning something new every day."
"That never stops. If it does, you're not paying attention." Ethan finished his beer. "The actors I respect most are the ones who are still learning at sixty. Still experimenting. Still willing to fail."
"Who are they?"
Ethan thought for a moment. "Daniel Day-Lewis. Philip Seymour Hoffman. Meryl Streep. People who disappear into roles. Who make choices that are brave."
"That's a high bar."
"It should be. Why aim for anything less?"
The conversation in the room shifted. Rick was talking about a project he wanted to make. Something experimental. No script. Just actors improvising for a week.
"That sounds insane," Woody said.
"That's why it would be interesting," Rick replied.
Ethan stood. "I'm getting another beer. You want one?"
"Sure."
Ethan went to the kitchen. Came back with two bottles. Handed one to Henry.
"Thanks."
Ethan sat again. This time he didn't dive right back into the monologue. Just sat. Drank. Listened to the room.
But after a minute, he started again.
"You ever think about directing?" Ethan asked.
"Not really. I'm still figuring out acting."
"Fair. But think about it eventually. Directing gives you control. You're not waiting for someone to cast you. You're making the thing you want to make."
"You direct?"
"I've done some stories I want to tell. But it always needs to find the time and money."
"That's the hard part."
"Always is. But if you wait for perfect conditions, you never do anything."
Henry liked talking to Ethan. The guy was intense. But genuine. He believed what he said.
"What's your next project?" Henry asked.
"I'm doing a film with Rick, it's actually an insane movie."
"What's it about?"
"For the past "
Henry felt something shift in his chest. The third film. He'd loved it in his previous life. Watched it years after it came out. And now it was being made. He'd get to see it again. Experience it fresh.
"That's incredible," Henry said, keeping his voice steady. "I love those films. Both of them."
Ethan smiled. "Really?"
"Yeah. Before Sunrise especially. The whole concept—two people just talking. Walking through Vienna. No plot. Just connection. It's perfect."
"That means a lot. Most people don't get them. They think nothing happens."
"Everything happens. It's just quiet."
Ethan looked genuinely pleased. "You get it. That's exactly what we're going for."
"When are you shooting?"
"That's the question. We want to start next year, but there are some complications. Scheduling. Funding. The usual." Ethan shrugged. "Might get delayed. These things take time."
"But you're definitely making it?"
"Eventually. The gap between the films is intentional. Seven years between the first and second. Another nine for this one. We want Jesse and Celine to age in real time. You can't fake that with makeup. It has to be real."
Henry nodded. He remembered. He'd watched all three films back to back once. The progression. The way the relationship evolved. The honesty of it.
'I get to see it again,' he thought. 'Get to experience it new.'
"That's really cool," Henry said.
"We'll see. Could be great. Could be a disaster. That's the fun of it."
Julie called over from across the room. "Ethan, stop monopolizing the new guy."
Ethan laughed. "I'm not monopolizing. We're having a conversation."
"You're lecturing."
"It's a conversation shaped like a lecture."
Everyone laughed.
But Ethan wasn't done. He turned back to Henry.
"One more thing," Ethan said. "And then I'll let you talk to other people."
"Okay."
"Don't let success change what you care about. A lot of actors get a hit and then they start chasing that. Trying to recreate it. But that's a trap. You have to keep evolving. Keep taking risks. Success should buy you freedom, not lock you into a formula."
"I'll try."
"Good." Ethan stood. Stretched. "Alright. I've talked enough. Your turn."
But before Henry could say anything, Woody called Ethan over. Something about a story he wanted to tell.
Ethan wandered over to the other couch. Henry sat there for a moment. Processing.
He'd just gotten an acting philosophy download from Ethan Hawke. Unprompted. Just because.
Julie moved to the couch next to him.
"He does that," she said.
"What?"
"Talks. He loves to talk. Loves to share ideas."
"I don't mind."
"No one does. That's the thing. He's actually saying something worth hearing."
They talked for a bit. Julie asked about Zombieland. About (500) Days. About where Henry was from. The conversation was lighter. Easier.
The night continued. Stories. Laughter. Rick put on different music. Someone suggested watching something but no one could agree on what.
Around midnight, people started leaving. Julie first. Then Wiley.
Woody and Henry left together.
"That was good, right?" Woody asked as they walked to their cars.
"Yeah. Really good."
"Ethan talk your ear off?"
"Little bit."
Woody laughed. "He does that. But he means well. And he's usually right."
"He is."
"You should stay in touch with these people. Guys like Ethan, Rick—they're the real deal. They care about the work."
"I will."
They reached Henry's rental car.
"See you tomorrow," Woody said.
"See you."
Henry drove back to the hotel. The roads were empty. Just him and the occasional streetlight.
He thought about the night. About Ethan's words. About legacy and choices and staying curious.
'Don't let success change what you care about.'
Good advice. If success actually came.
But if it did—when it did—Henry wanted to remember this. The conversation. The ideas. The reminder that the work mattered more than the result.
He parked. Went up to his room. Sat on the bed.
His phone buzzed. Text from Woody.
Glad you came tonight. Those guys liked you.
Henry typed back.
Thanks for inviting me.
He got ready for bed. Set his alarm. Tomorrow was another early call time.
But tonight had been something else. A glimpse into a different kind of career. One built on intention and artistry rather than just momentum.
Henry wanted that. The freedom to choose. The courage to take risks. The clarity to know what mattered.
He wasn't there yet. But he could see the path.
He fell asleep thinking about it.