Page 63 of Smoke Signals

We pass kids riding bikes along sidewalks, a woman changing the wreath on her porch, someone walking a dog without rushing anywhere.

“You ever think about moving back?” I ask.

He hesitates.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Lately I have.”

I turn toward him. “Why’d you leave?”

He exhales slowly. “I wanted the big calls. Bigger city, busier firehouse, more action. Chicago felt like where I needed to be if I wanted to prove something.”

“And now?”

His hand slides off the steering wheel long enough to find mine resting on the console, and his fingers lace through mine.

“Now, I think about slower mornings,” he says quietly. “Making sure I come home. A house closer to family sounds good.”

Something tight loosens in my chest.

“I moved to Chicago to run,” I admit. “After my brother died, everything back home felt heavy. I looked up schools, neighborhoods, places where a massage studio might survive. I thought a big city would mean more opportunity.”

“And?”

“I do okay,” I say. “But there’s a lot of competition. Sometimes I wonder if I chose wrong.”

He squeezes my hand. “You didn’t choose wrong. You chose what you thought was best.”

The road curves through a quiet neighborhood, trees older and taller, houses set back just enough to feel private. He slows, turns onto a residential street, pulls to the curb, and I check the back seat to see if Alaska's still asleep so I don't have to look at the house yet.

White siding, wide porch, big front windows catching afternoon light. It looks solid, lived in, the kind of place built for noise and holidays and people staying longer than planned.

Before I can say anything, the front door opens.

Two people step out onto the porch.

The man is broad shouldered and tall, wearing a faded T-shirt stretched comfortably across his chest, hair thinning at the top, beard trimmed short. The woman beside him has long hair pulled back loosely, glasses catching the sunlight, her smile already wide before we even step out of the car. She has the kind of warmth that reaches her eyes first, hands clasped together like she’s been waiting at the door longer than she planned to admit.

Stellan exhales beside me, almost nervous.

“That’s them,” he says quietly.

25

HARTLEY

For a second, none of us move. Alaska presses both hands against the window, staring at Stellan’s parents like she’s studying a new animal at the zoo. Stellan shifts beside me, reaching for the door handle.

“Well,” he says softly, “this is it.”

I blow out a slow breath and push my door open. Cold air hits my face immediately, sharp enough to wake every nerve in my body. The house looks even bigger from the driveway; a wide porch stretches across the front, windows glowing warm from inside.

Stellan circles the front of the vehicle and opens the back door before I can even think about it. Alaska is already unbuckling herself. He waits patiently until she finishes, then scoops her up when she raises her arms.

“There’s my copilot,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against her hair.

She giggles quietly and presses her forehead against his cheek, then signs something quick that I miss because my brain is still stuck on the fact that we’re standing in front of his childhood home.

“Hi!” his mom calls, already coming down the steps before we’ve made it halfway up.