Page 52 of Smoke Signals

Hartley standing barefoot in his kitchen, hair still messy from sleep. Alaska wedged between us on the couch, stubbornly trying to stay awake because the movie hadn’t finished yet. Ordinary things that somehow feel louder than sirens ever did.

I shake the thought loose and grab my keys.

The drive to the firehouse feels shorter than usual, maybe because my hands remember the route without effort, or maybe because my pulse hasn’t slowed since I left my place. Dawn spreads across the skyline in pale streaks of orange and gray, Chicago stretching awake around me, buses braking at corners, commuters already impatient. When the familiar shape of the station comes into view, my stomach flips and then settles all at once.

I park and sit there for a second, fingers resting on the steering wheel.

This used to be everything.

Now it isn’t the only thing.

Inside, the firehouse hums with movement. Boots scrape concrete, lockers slam, someone laughs too loudly at something stupid near the kitchen. Déjà vu hits me instantly, muscle memory waking before thought catches up and I feel it in my bones, that automatic shift into awareness that never really leaves once you learn it.

Phoenix spots me first.

“Well look who decided to rejoin civilization,” he calls, grinning like he’s been waiting to say it all morning.

“Miss me?” I ask, shrugging out of my jacket.

“Debatable,” he says. “The coffeemaker missed you. Nobody else makes it strong enough.”

Sterling appears a second later, clapping my shoulder carefully. “How’s the arm?”

“Attached,” I say. “Mostly functional.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The teasing rolls over me easily, and for a moment it feels like no time has passed at all. I move toward my locker, fingers brushing the cool metal before opening it, and there it is. My gear exactly where I left it, helmet scuffed, turnout coat heavy when I lift it free of the hook.

The weight settles across my arms, and something inside me clicks back into place.

Captain Cole steps into the bay, gaze landing on me immediately. He doesn’t smile, but there’s approval in the way he nods.

“Ride-along clearance today,” he says. “You listen to your body.”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes linger just long enough to make sure I mean it, then he moves on just as my thoughts drift.

Hartley watching sirens pass outside his window, trying not to look worried. Alaska signing my name with that careful seriousness she uses for important things. The way Hartley’s finally believing the moment won’t disappear if he lets himself have it.

The tones drop before I can sit with it too long.

I gear up slower than usual, not from hesitation but awareness. Every strap tightened feels deliberate, every movement checked twice. My shoulder holds and my breathing stays steady. Around me the crew moves like a machine that never stopped running, and somewhere between pulling on gloves and checking equipment, the adrenaline hits.

My body moves before my brain finishes processing, boots pounding toward the truck, hands finding familiar holds. I climb in beside Dark, heart kicking harder with every second as the engine roars to life beneath us.

The city blurs past in streaks of motion and noise, the siren cutting through traffic. My shoulder twinges once when we round a corner, but I think it’s just nerves, and relief slides through me almost immediately.

The call turns out smaller than expected. Smoke alarm triggered by a kitchen fire, contained but messy, an older apartment building with residents crowding the sidewalk wrapped in blankets and worry. We move through the motions smoothly, checking for hotspots, clearing smoke, and reassuring a shaken elderly woman who keeps apologizing for burning bacon like she personally caused a disaster.

Inside the apartment heat lingers in the walls, air thick with the sharp smell of char and extinguished flame. My mask presses warm against my face as I move through the space, checking corners, muscles remembering every step without effort.

This is why I do it.

Not the danger, not the adrenaline, but the clarity. The moment where everything narrows into action and purpose, where helping someone is immediate and tangible.

When we step back outside, cool air hits my skin and I pull off my helmet, breaths steady.