The mirror above my dresser tells me what I already know: it’s 5:07, Wednesday, and I look about as fresh as a woodpile in March. Hair up in a lopsided bun, the undercut at my temples crawling out past respectability. Time to bribe Chuck for a buzz. Thirty-four years and almost eleven months behind me; thirty-five on the horizon, barreling closer every time I check the calendar.
I’m fine. Room’s fine. The Stocking is fine. “Fine” is something I’ve always been good at.
Downstairs, the kitchen’s a disaster, and it’s barely sunrise. Anson from 3B—with the kind of teacher energy that can’t be faked, plus bizarrely strong feelings about oat milk—is already posted up, arms crossed, glowering at the coffee grinder.
“The coarse setting on this thing is not coarse,” he gripes to nobody, “It’s medium at best. Maybe medium-coarse if I’m being generous, but I’m not.”
I reach around him and grab a mug—the shelf is crammed with mismatched souvenirs, chipped ceramics, mugs that look like bad breakups and even worse garage sales. My go-to is chipped, with a faded cartoon moose shouting VERMONT OR BUST in ghost letters. The pot’s running on fumes but it’s enough. I pour, lean against the counter, let the routine do the work.
“You could adjust the burr,” I offer.
He looks at me like I’ve just asked him to repair his own spleen. “I don’t want to adjust the burr. I want the coarse setting to be coarse. Is that so much to ask from a ninety-dollar grinder?”
“Honestly? Yeah.”
We’ve got a chore chart taped on the fridge, all wishful thinking and zero actual progress. Wednesday: sweep the common areas, take out recycling, clean microwave. The microwave ceiling’s got a chili splatter that looks like Rhode Island if Rhode Island were a crime scene. Nobody’s fixing it. We all pretend it doesn’t exist.
Thuba, the attic housemate, blows through on her way to bed, spent from eighteen hours at the hospital. Scrubs, glazed eyes, no words. We nod at each other. It’s enough.
My phone buzzes. Calendar alert: birthday next week. Thirty-five. Seven days.
I shove the phone back in my pocket without reading the details. The number’s already branded on my brain, heavier than it should be.
“Big plans for the big day?” Anson, still stuck on the grinder. The question’s light, but he’s watching.
“Sure,” I say, sipping my cold coffee. “Going to climb something tall and reckless. Or drink something tall and reckless. Haven’t decided.”
He laughs, which is the only outcome I’m interested in, and gets back to fiddling with the grinder. I rinse my mug, grab my kit, and make for the door.
Outside: air with that predawn snap, not freezing but sharp along the edges, the kind of chill that makes you think even the world is holding its breath. I toss my kit in the back of the truck, slide into the driver’s seat, and just sit there, hands at ten and two.
Thirty-five. One week. It shouldn’t matter this much. But something about it sticks, deeper than it should.
The truck grumbles awake. Radio’s tuned to some indie folk song about rivers and regret, guitars laced over a man’s voice. I pull into the empty street, heading toward the first chimney of the day, the next job, and the familiar appetite of nowhere.
Fine is fine. Fine got me here.
It’ll have to be enough.
Let’s just nail this to the door: there’s nothing romantic about chimney sweeps. Not even a little. You’re wedged into crumbling brick, scraping ungodly sludge off the inside, while a retired teacher with a frog collection yells up at you from below.
Mrs. Pelletier’s Victorian is the kind of house people photograph for postcards: carved trim, stained glass, staircase that wouldn’t be out of place in a murder mystery. The chimney, though—it narrows halfway up, choking anyone dumb enough to climb it. Today, that’s me. Jordan Vale, they/them, professional chimney goblin.
My wire brush rasps against the old flue, a sound that could unnerve even the most jaded dentist. Soot flakes down, soft as frost and twice as lethal. My respirator is doing its best, which is not enough. I’ve been at it an hour. My right elbow’s gone pins-and-needles. The smell is part campfire, part something shameful.
Mrs. Pelletier’s voice floats up the shaft, clear as morning bell, like I’m in her parlor instead of three stories up, scraping carcinogens.
“Did I tell you about my niece’s wedding? The cake was shaped like a lighthouse, Jordan! Can you imagine?”
I make a sound, let the flue turn it into a goblin’s grunt. She keeps going, undeterred.
“Oh, it was beautiful. The band only played ABBA, which I suppose is a choice.”
I hit a stubborn patch near the damper. Lean in, shove with my shoulder until the brick gives—a little. Progress, slow and dirty. The only kind that counts, in my job.
“That reminds me,” Mrs. Pelletier calls up, using her best I’m-Not-Gossiping voice, “I ran into Elaine Hemsley at the post office—the one on Maple? Well, she heard Maddie Weiz is thinking about selling. The store, and maybe the house. Can you believe it? After all this time?”
The words land, heavy. “Selling.” “Store.” “Maddie.” A pulse against my bones.
