Page 16 of Smoke Signals

I know the next sentence before he says it.

“He died on a call a year ago,” Hartley continues. “Structure fire.”

The words land heavily.

"That's how I got custody of Alaska. Her mom died having her, so it was always just the two of them. And then it was me. She hasn’t spoken since. She can hear just fine, she understands everything, she just… doesn’t talk. Not since he didn’t come home.”

I don’t interrupt or rush him.

“I didn’t know,” I say finally. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods once. “I’m not saying you can’t be here,” he adds quickly, like he’s worried I’ll hear something he isn’t saying. “You’re good with her. She likes you. I just needed you to know. Firefighting isn’t neutral for us.”

“I get that,” I tell him, and I do. More than he probably realizes.

He exhales slowly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to dump that on you.”

“You didn’t,” I say. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”

We stand there a moment longer than necessary, the space between us quiet but heavy with something new.

From the kitchen Alaska clears her throat, and Hartley’s head snaps in her direction.

“Coming” he calls, already moving.

We join her, and the rest of the session finishes calm but careful. Hartley stays closer than usual, sitting at the edge of the table instead of the couch.

She colors and signs finished when she’s done. When it’s time to go, she signs thank you again. I sign it back, holding her gaze a beat longer.

At the door, Hartley meets my eyes.

“Next week still okay?” he asks.

“If it is for you,” I say.

He nods. “Yeah. I think it is.”

7

HARTLEY

I don’t sleep well the rest of the weekend after the Lance conversation.

I keep replaying the look on Stellan’s face when I told him Alaska’s dad had been a firefighter, the way his expression shifted just enough for me to see it.

Monday morning comes whether I’m ready or not. Alaska pads into the kitchen in socked feet and climbs into her chair. She lines up her spoon and bowl, checks the clock, then looks at me expectantly.

“Yeah,” I say, shaking myself loose. “I’m with you.”

Preschool drop-off is quieter than usual. She holds my hand all the way to the door, her grip firmer than it’s been in weeks. Ms. Rodriguez greets us with her usual gentle smile and Alaska waves before heading inside without looking back.

That should feel like progress. Instead, it feels like I left something unfinished.

Work helps a little. My first client complains about her lower back, I nod and listen. Focusing on pressure, breath, and anatomy. My hands know what to do even when my brain doesn’t.

Between sessions, I catch myself staring at my phone more than once.

Nothing from Stellan.