Page 8 of Smoke Signals

I positioned myself between her and him without saying a word. He shouted and came toward her, and she flinched with every move. Luckily, she left that night.

Months later, when I ran into her again at the doctor’s office, I almost didn’t recognize her.

Her hair was lighter, cut blunt at her shoulders, the ends brushing the collar of her jacket when she moved. She met my eyes without flinching, chin tipped up just slightly, and her hands rested easily over her stomach. Protective but calm, fingers splayed in a way that wasn’t anxious—just present. We’ve kept in touch since. Coffee and sometimes lunch here and there.

The text isn’t from her, though. It’s from an unknown number.

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

Tutoring wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was being home this much, or waking up without a shift to report to, or measuring my days in stretches and ice packs instead of calls and clocks. But it fills the space, and it gives my hands something to do that doesn’t involve a ladder or a ceiling that might give way.

I’m good at it, too, always have been. Back in high school, I helped my little cousins with homework. In college, I tutored on the side—math, reading, whatever they needed. I liked the way things clicked for kids, the moment the frustration left them.

If I wasn’t a firefighter, I would’ve been a teacher.

So tutoring, meeting families where they are, slowing myself down instead of charging forward—it feels like a different version of the same instinct. Keep someone safe. Help them find their footing. Step back once they’ve got it.

I glance at my shoulder, stiff and aching, a reminder that this isn’t forever—but neither is anything.

Hartley’s message sits there, careful and polite.

I pick up my phone and type back.

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

The reply comes slower this time.

Hartley: 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.

I know that tone. I picture someone standing between a kid and the world, hoping it’s enough. I type carefully.

Me: 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.

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

The dots appear.

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

A smile tugs at my mouth.

Me: Absolutely. She sets the pace.

When he sends the address, I lock the phone and set it down. The firehouse feels farther away than it ever has.

3

HARTLEY

I check my phone for the fourth time in under two minutes and immediately hate myself for it.

Four fifty-seven.

I’ve already wiped down the kitchen counters twice, straightened the couch pillows, and moved Alaska’s crayons into a neater line even though she already had them exactly how she likes them. The apartment smells like chicken salad and lavender cleaner, which wasn’t intentional but feels like it says something about my current mental state.

Alaska sits at the table, coloring carefully, her feet swinging just above the floor. She’s wearing her Power Ranger shirt because she had it on before I opened the door; the green one with the slightly cracked print. I let it go because tonight is not the night to fight battles that don’t matter.

“You remember,” I say, keeping my voice casual even though my chest feels tight, “if you don’t like him, he leaves.”