Page 45 of Smoke Signals

“Tutoring,” I correct.

“Same thing.”

We drift toward the table, grabbing fresh coffee that actually smells halfway decent this time.

“How’s that going?” he asks.

I blow on the surface, watching the steam curl.

“It’s good,” I say slowly.

I stare into my cup for a second, seeing a small kitchen table instead of the bay. Crayons lined up in perfect rows. Serious little eyes watching everything.

“You helping her?” he asks.

“I think so.”

“You usually do.”

Before I can answer the tones drop, and everybody in the room moves at once. My own body reacts before my brain catches up. Adrenaline spikes, pulse kicking hard, muscles tightening like I’m already halfway to the truck.

For half a second I step forward, then my shoulder twinges.

Reality snaps back in, and I stop.

The crew pours out of the bay, movements fast and controlled. Doors slam, the engine roars to life and just like that, they’re gone.

The bay feels bigger when the trucks are gone, like something vital just stepped out of the room.

I stand there, chest still tight with leftover adrenaline, fingers flexing like they’re searching for something to grab.

God, I miss it.

Not the danger or the heat, but the purpose and knowing exactly where I fit.

Jake lingers beside me, watching.

“You’ll be back,” he says.

“I know.”

The drive home is quiet, the city sliding past in gray and steel.

By the time I pull into my building’s lot the sun is already dropping, the sky streaked with orange and purple over the skyline. Chicago at dusk always looks as pretty as a painting.

Inside, my apartment greets me with stillness. I hang my keys on the hook by the door and roll my shoulder again, slower this time.

It pulls tight, not terrible, just there.

I head to the bathroom, twist the shower handle, and let hot water fill the small space with steam.

When I step under it heat sinks into muscle and bone, loosening the knot that’s been riding high between my shoulder and neck all day. I brace my palm against the tile and close my eyes. For a second, the sound of water turns into something else.

Rain against turnout gear, the hiss of steam on hot metal, a child crying somewhere behind a wall.

I open my eyes, and I’m still in my bathroom. I exhale slowly and let the tension bleed out with the heat.

Later, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, I sit on the couch with my phone resting face up beside me.