Page 7 of When the Smoke Clears

I shake my head. “It was quiet. Connor had a seizure, but it was not the worst. He’s been sleeping for a while.”

Her brows pinch. “So what’s wrong?”

“I got a call from home.”

Erin freezes. “The home you refuse to talk about?”

“Yep. That one.”

“Who called?”

“I haven’t listened yet.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t.” I bite my bottom lip, grounding myself with the familiar sting.

“You want to listen together?”

For a moment, I consider it. But something in me insists the breaking needs to be done alone. I need to be under my own blanket, on my own terms.

“No,” I say gently. “After the shift report, I’m going home to shower first. I’m not ready.”

She squeezes my hand. “Promise you’ll call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Twenty minutes later, I grab my bag, wrap my cardigan around my waist like a soft shield, and tell her, “Keep an eye on Connor for me.”

The cool evening air hits, and the city’s chaos crashes over me—honking horns, shouting strangers, ambulance sirens weaving through hilly streets. I find the noise comforting on most days. It drowns me out. I’m no one here, and I prefer it that way.

Yet, tonight, the fog creeps low, seeping into my clothes and bones. By the time I reach my apartment, I’m so wrung out I could collapse on the linoleum. But the hot shower wins.

Steam washes away the day before I slip into soft pajamas and wander into the kitchen. Food sounds worse than listening to the voicemail, so I settle on chamomile tea.

Cradling the mug, I drift through my tiny apartment until I stand in front of the closet, staring at the old hatbox on the top shelf.

Balancing on tiptoe, I hook my fingers under the lid and nudge it forward. It tumbles into my arms with a solid thump, sending up dust that makes me sneeze four times in rapid succession.

“Bless me,” I mutter to myself.

I lift the lid, revealing the handful of scraps I’ve kept from the life I left behind.

Tonight, with Wildhaven echoing in my head, I reach for the Polaroid on top. It’s the last one ever taken of Luke Wild and me. The only thing of him I still have.

Memory crashes in like waves against the San Francisco shoreline.

I’m fifteen the first time Luke Wild actually speaks to me—on a night when I’m convinced I’m invisible to the world.

I sit at the edge of the dock, knees tucked under my chin, gray hoodie zipped tight to my throat—a thin mist curls off the lake like smoke from dying embers. My breath shudders from the fight with my mom.

She’s been gone half my life—chasing parties, distractions, anything but me. Tonight her words hit like darts, each one embedding itself somewhere I can’t reach.

A long creak groans across the dock. My heart slams into my ribs. I swipe at my cheeks with damp sleeves and turn.

He steps out of the dark.

Luke Wild.