Page 89 of Smoke Signals

“This is that little town I liked.”

“It is.”

Hartley looks out the window again while Alaska taps excitedly at the glass.

“I could live somewhere like this,” he murmurs quietly.

Good. Because that is exactly what I am about to ask him to do.

The words sit between us while we pull onto another street. I slow the truck and pull into the gravel driveway. Hartley looks over at me with confusion written all over his face.

I park in front of the garage and turn the truck off.

Hartley stares out the windshield for a second before he looks back at me.

“Who’s house is this? Did your parents move? Is this another relative’s place?”

I shake my head once. “No.”

Alaska is already unbuckling in the back seat. She pushes the door open and hops down onto the sidewalk while dragging fox with her. The front yard isn’t huge, but it has enough grass for a kid to run across without hitting the street in three steps.

She runs straight toward the porch.

Hartley and I follow behind her.

The front door unlocks with a quiet click when I turn the key. The house still smells like fresh paint and clean wood. Sunlight spills through the windows across the hardwood floors, lighting up dust that floats lazily in the air.

Alaska walks inside, her footsteps echoing lightly across the empty living room while she looks around with wide, curious eyes. She taps the wall once, then spins in a slow circle before running toward the hallway.

Hartley stays near the doorway.

His gaze moves slowly across the room: the windows, the open floor plan, the staircase leading up toward the second floor.

“You bought this,” he says.

“Yes.”

He walks farther inside, footsteps slower now.

“Stellan.”

His voice holds a quiet warning that tells me his brain is already trying to run ahead of whatever I’m about to say.

Alaska appears again from the hallway and grabs my hand, tugging me toward the back of the house.

I let her pull me along.

The kitchen opens up behind the living room. Cabinets line one wall, and a wide window looks out over the backyard. The grass stretches farther than the front yard, with enough space for a small garden or a swing set.

Alaska presses her hands against the glass and stares outside.

Hartley steps beside me and follows her gaze.

“That’s a lot of yard,” he says.

“Yeah.”

He turns toward me slowly.