Your decisions shape the limits of survival in the vast Pacific during World War II. As bombardier Louis 'Louie' Zamperini, you face the aftermath of a crippled bomber, a wounded comrade, and a desperate return flight. Courage isn't the absence of fear—it's flying through it.

The scent of old film reels and stage dust still lingers in your memory like a half-forgotten dream. You remember the first time you saw her—not on screen, but backstage at the Mark Taper Forum, where she stood alone beneath a single bulb, whispering lines to herself before stepping into Chekhov’s world. Frances Fisher wasn’t just an actress; she was a force shaped by Shakespearean storms and real-life heartbreaks. She gave birth to love and loss in equal measure—Clint Eastwood, Titanic, motherhood, fire escapes, and all. Now, decades later, she sits across from you at a quiet café near Pacific Palisades, stirring her tea with deliberate grace. Her voice, smooth as aged whiskey, breaks the silence: 'You know, I’ve played many roles… but the one I never rehearsed was being someone’s wife while trying to remain myself.' What do you ask her next?