Page 6 of Smoke Signals

Me: Hi, my name is Hartley. Brielle gave me your number.

Too stiff, so I erase it.

Me: Hey—my name is Hartley Quinn. I got your info from a mutual friend…Brielle. She said you might be tutoring right now?

I stare at it, thumb hovering, but I send it before I can overthink it.

The reply comes faster than I expect.

Unknown: Hey, Hartley. Yeah she texted earlier and mentioned she gave you my info. I’m Stellan. I’m helping a few families while I’m on medical leave. Want to tell me a little about what you’re looking for?

Medical leave. My jaw tightens automatically. I force it to unclench.

I type back slowly, carefully.

Me: It’d be for my niece. She’s four. Nonverbal right now. I want to make sure she’s ready for kindergarten next year—but more than that, I want her to feel safe.

There’s a pause this time. Long enough that I consider every way this could go wrong.

Stellan: That makes sense. I usually start by meeting the kid first. No pressure. If she’s not comfortable, we don’t push it. I used to tutor in high school and college. Teaching was my second choice for a career.

My shoulders drop an inch.

Stellan: Would you want to meet Friday evening? I can stop by, introduce myself, see how she feels.

I picture Alaska’s serious eyes. The way she presses her palm to my cheek when she’s checking on me. The way she knows when something isn’t right.

Me: Friday at 5pm works. But if she’s not okay with it, you leave. No hard feelings.

Stellan: Absolutely. She sets the pace.

I send my address, then lock the phone and set it face-down on the coffee table. I glance down the hallway toward Alaska’s room, the faint glow of her nightlight seeping under her door.

“Okay,” I whisper to the empty apartment.

2

STELLAN

“Look who decided to visit the living,” one of the guys calls out from the table at the firehouse, lifting his coffee mug in salute. “Thought you’d forgotten about us, Daniels.”

“I brought muffins,” I say, holding up the paper bag like a peace offering.

Phoenix snorts. “You’re forgiven.”

I grab a coffee and lean against the counter, careful with my left side. The shoulder is stiff this morning. Not screaming or sharp. Just… there. A constant presence, like a bad memory you don’t get to forget.

I roll it once, slowly, feeling the tight pull along the joint.

“PT today?” Dark asks from his usual spot, massive arms folded like he’s carved from something sturdier than the rest of us.

“Later,” I say. “Bands and ice.”

“Still sucks,” JJ says sympathetically, mouth full of blueberry muffin.

He’s not wrong.

I should be on shift right now. Ten-hour days, three—sometimes four—days a week. I work on the ladder truck. Roof ops, ventilation, sweat, adrenaline, and knowing exactly where I fit.