Smoke Signals (Firehouse 99 #11)

Chapter 1

HARTLEY

I stare at the space heater while sitting on the edge of my bed, one sock on, one sock half-rolled and clinging to my toes. I wonder if today will be the day the heater shorts out and kills the power to the whole building. Again. I nudge it with my foot carefully, and it answers with a whine.

“Okay,” I mutter. “I hear you. Don’t kick you around.”

Chicago winters don’t care that it’s March. The wind still howls between buildings, rattling the windowpanes. My bedroom in this apartment never quite warms up.

I tug my other sock on and shuffle down the hallway. The two bedroom apartment is medium-sized, a second floor walk up with a staircase that smells like old wood and cooking oil. Two bedrooms that back home would have been closets instead of actual rooms.

The space heater starts to blow once more behind me. At least it’s only in my room, and it’s not radiator heat. My brother Lance used to joke that radiators were just angry kettles waiting to explode. God do I miss that fucker.

I flick on the kitchen light and it buzzes before it steadies.

The counter is cluttered with yesterday’s mail, a half-folded school flyer, and a pink plastic cup with a cartoon fox on it.

Alaska’s. She lines them up like trophies on the counter, always in the same order, like if she keeps everything in its place then nothing else can fall apart.

The coffeemaker’s already brewed my cup, so I head to the fridge and add the almond creamer and to top it off I add white mocha syrup.

I give it a stir and take the first sip, leaning my hip against the counter, rubbing sleep from my eyes and listening to the city wake up outside—buses going by, someone shouting, a car horn that sounds way too aggressive for six thirty in the morning.

“Alaska,” I call down the hall. “Five minutes.”

No answer.

I don’t expect one.

The microwave clock says we’re already behind.

We’re always behind. Time stretches when I don’t need it and sprints when I do.

I grab my mug and head down the hall, stepping over the loose board by the bathroom that creaks no matter how careful I am.

I knock gently on Alaska's door. It’s covered in stickers: stars, animals, a crooked firefighter badge sticker someone gave her at her dad’s memorial that I don’t have the heart to peel off.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say softly, opening it just enough to peek inside.

She’s already awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair a wild halo around her head, methodically lining up her stuffed animals by size. Bear. Bunny. Fox. Dinosaur. Every morning, same order. Same ritual.

Her eyes flick to me. Gray like her dad’s.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “Preschool day.”

She blinks once but doesn’t speak.

That’s been the rule since the fire.

I don’t push, I never push. I crouch instead, lowering myself to her level, careful not to disrupt the lineup. My knees pop quietly. I make a mental note—again—to stretch more, to stop pretending I’m twenty-two instead of almost thirty.

I say and sign good morning, clumsy but improving. Alaska watches my hands, then signs it back. I hold the sign a second longer than I need to, in case she wants to add anything to it.

She can talk and hear just fine. I know that. The doctors know that. The therapists keep telling me she’s processing, that silence doesn’t mean absence, that grief takes the time it takes.

But her preschool sent another note home yesterday. Highlighted with a passive aggressive smiling clip-art that said, Concerns about kindergarten readiness.

I scoop Alaska up from her bed before she can get off of it herself.

She doesn’t squeal or protest. She just curls into me automatically, her small body warm and heavy in that way only children manage—like trust that has weight. I carry her into the kitchen, settling her into the booster seat while I start her morning routine.

Cereal first, then banana slices, with juice watered down more than she’d prefer if she’d complain about it. I slide everything onto the table and sit across from her with my coffee, watching the way she lines up the banana pieces before eating them.

I try not to let my chest tighten. She’s been obsessed with precise order and everything having a certain place since her dad died.

Preschool drop-off is at eight-thirty. My first massage client is at ten. Somewhere between those two things, I have to convince myself I’m not failing spectacularly at this whole guardianship thing.

One year ago, my biggest concern was passing my licensing exam. Now I’m Googling “kindergarten readiness checklist” at two in the morning and wondering if silence due to trauma can be measured on a developmental chart.

“Time to get dressed,” I say, pointing.

Alaska slides off the chair and pads back to her room without looking at me, returning fully dressed in a kitten-covered dress with her sneakers in hand. She sets her shoes neatly by my feet and sits, waiting.

Lance should be here for this. He should be the one putting her shoes on her and taking her to her last year of preschool. He did it alone for four years and never once made it sound hard, her mom didn't make it out of the delivery room, and he just learned. Shoes, ponytails, all of it.

The thought hits hard enough that I have to grip the edge of the table until it passes. I don’t let myself go there in the mornings. Mornings are for logistics. Grief waits until night.

Outside, Chicago is already loud. Sirens echo down the street—too close, always too close—and I flinch before I can stop myself. Alaska’s head tilts, her gaze flicking toward the window. Her fingers curl into the hem of my hoodie.

“I know,” I murmur. “It’s okay.”

I don’t know if I’m saying it to her or to myself.

The preschool smells like crayons and disinfectant. Bright posters line the walls, alphabet charts and finger-painted suns, cheerful and relentless. Alaska hangs back by my leg while I sign her in, her small hand gripping my jeans.

Ms. Rodriguez smiles at me the way people do when they’re trying to be encouraging without alarming you. I’ve learned to read that smile.

“Do you have a minute, Hartley?” she asks.

My stomach drops, but I nod anyway.

She leads me into her office, and we sit at a tiny table meant for children. My knees bump the underside, and Alaska slides into my lap without prompting. She tucks her face into my chest, fingers twisting in my hoodie string.

Ms. Rodriguez folds her hands. “We’re just a little concerned about next year.”

There it is.

“Alaska is doing really well here. She follows routines beautifully. She’s kind to the other kids. Very observant.”

I nod.

“She still hasn’t spoken,” Ms. Rodriguez continues, like we’re discussing the weather. “But she communicates in other ways. She points, she draws, she uses expressions. She understands everything that’s asked of her.”

I swallow. My mouth tastes like old coffee. “She’s smart,” I say. It comes out sharper than I mean. Defensive. “She knows her letters. She can count past fifty. She—”

“We know,” she says gently, holding up a hand. “This isn’t about her intelligence.” She slides a thin folder closer to me. Inside are papers with charts, boxes, words I don’t want to read. I keep my eyes on her face instead.

“Kindergarten is just… different,” she says. “It’s louder. There are more children. Less one-on-one support. Expectations change quickly. She may need more preparation to feel comfortable.”

My fingers curl into my palm. “Like…?”

“Extra support,” she says. “Someone to work with her over the summer.”

“You mean speech therapy.”

“Possibly,” she says. “Or tutoring, even more early intervention. Something consistent.”

Something I don’t know how to do.

I nod again, slower this time. My heart is pounding hard enough I’m surprised she can’t hear it.

“I can do that,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Whatever she needs. I just—yeah. Of course.”

Ms. Rodriguez offers me a small smile. “You don’t have to decide everything today,” she says. “We just wanted to start the conversation early.”

She doesn’t say the word mute. She doesn’t have to.

“I don’t want her to be behind,” I say. The words fall out before I can stop them. “I don’t want her to walk into a room and feel lost.”

“Another year of preschool isn’t the end of the world, Hartley. Just consider it. Okay?”

I smile because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Inside, panic curls tight and hot in my chest.

Because I don’t know how to be a parent.

I don’t know how to replace a father.

Because loving her feels like standing in front of a fire without gear, hoping willpower will keep us both safe.

Back in the hall, I crouch to Alaska’s level and tug her scarf off, smoothing her hair back into place.

“It’s okay,” I say again. “We’re okay.”

She looks at my face, her expression serious in that way kids get when they know something important is happening even if they don’t have words for it. Then she reaches up and presses her palm to my cheek.

“I love you,” I tell her, and she smiles before heading into her classroom.

I thank Ms. Rodriguez and head outside.

One thought loops louder than anything else.

I have to get this right.

No matter what it takes.

The walk to my car feels longer than usual. Wind slices straight through my hoodie as I cut across the lot behind the preschool, boots crunching over dirty snow that refuses to melt even though the calendar insists it’s spring.

Knock it off.

I chose this city. It’s big enough that Lance doesn’t exist on every corner, in every story someone tells me without realizing they’re reopening a wound. I chose somewhere I could breathe without tripping over ghosts.

My car waits where I left it, a black sedan. I unlock it, open the door, and slide behind the wheel.