Page 12 of Smoke Signals

I should be thinking about PT tomorrow.

The drive home is quiet, radio off, city lights streaking past the windshield. Somewhere on Ashland I catch myself running the evening back for the third time and make myself stop.

By the time I get home my shoulder is tight enough that I feel it in my neck. I drop my keys on the counter and set the packet down beside them, square the edges out of habit, then peel off my jacket and head straight for the shower.

Hot water pounds down, steam filling the room while I roll the shoulder slow and careful, the way the physical therapist showed me. I brace a hand against the tile, bow my head, and breathe.

When I come back out I fill a glass at the sink. I set it down without looking and it lands on the packet, and I watch the ring spread through the first page before I think to move it.

I don't move it, instead I pick up my phone.

Me: Thanks again for letting me stop by tonight. Alaska's great. No rush on anything, just wanted to say I appreciate it.

I read it back once. It says what I meant it to say.

I send it, set the phone face down, and go back into the kitchen, where the glass is still sitting exactly where I left it.

HARTLEY

I’m standing in the middle of the living room, hands on my hips, staring at nothing like I might find answers hidden in the scuffed floor or the slightly crooked bookshelf. Alaska slides her crayons back into the box with care, then taps the lid twice.

“You ready for bed?” I ask.

She nods.

“Alright let’s get this kitchen tidied up, and then it’s jammies and bed for you.”

We move through the routine quietly. I rinse cups while she dries, I wipe the table, and put the dishes away.

Alaska pads down the hall ahead of me, going to her room. When I step inside, she’s already pulling her pajamas from the drawer. The princess ones with Tiana and Rapunzel on them.

“Good choice,” I say.

She smiles.

I help her into pajamas and brush her hair, careful with the tangles. She hums under her breath while I do it, not a tune, just sound. It’s new, or maybe it’s old and I’m just noticing it again. I keep brushing after the tangles are gone so she doesn't stop.

“You feel okay?” I ask softly.

She nods, then pauses, hands hovering before she signs something I haven’t seen her use much since the fire. Calm or maybe comfortable. I'm not sure, and I make a note to dig out the signing book I bought.

“That’s good,” I tell her. “I like calm.”

I tuck her in and sit on the edge of the bed longer than usual, waiting for her breathing to even out. She rolls onto her side, fox tucked under her arm, thumb brushing that same worn patch of fur.

I watch her until I’m sure she’s asleep.

Only then do I let myself leave the room.

The apartment is quiet in a way that presses in instead of relaxes. I straighten the couch pillows, then stop myself halfway through and drop them where they land.

This is ridiculous.

Nothing happened.

A man came over and met my niece. He was respectful. He left.

But still…I trusted him faster than I should have. Trust isn't something I hand out easily. It's not a flaw, it's a survival skill.