Page 2 of Smoke Signals

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?”