Page 21 of Smoke Signals

“I gotta go,” I say. “Session tonight.”

“Don’t be late,” he says. “Kids remember shit like that.”

The drive across the city is quiet. I keep the radio off, letting my thoughts loop and untangle on their own. Alaska, their apartment, Hartley standing in the kitchen pretending not to watch us.

I knock at five on the dot and Hartley opens the door looking as good as ever.

Alaska is already at the table, picture cards laid out. Hartley opens the door and lets me in before heading to the kitchen to stand by the counter, scrolling on his phone.

I set down a laminated sheet with pictures on it. Dog. Ball. Sun. Tree. I slide wooden letters next to it, chunky enough to grip easily, the kind kids like because they feel solid.

“Hope you don’t mind, Alaska. I brought something else for us to try tonight.”

She looks at the blocks and pictures before looking back at me with a wide grin on her face and nods.

“Perfect. So we’re gonna match,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “You tell me where they belong.”

I tap the picture of the dog. “D.”

She doesn’t reach for the letter right away. She tilts her head, studying it like she’s deciding, then she picks up the D and sets it down next to the picture, careful, precise.

“Good,” I say. “Now listen.”

I exaggerate the sound just enough. “Duh.”

Her mouth moves slightly. Not sound, just shape.

I don’t comment on it.

We move on. Ball. B. Sun. S. Each time she takes a beat longer than the last, thinking it through, fingers tapping lightly on the table while she decides. When she gets one wrong, she doesn’t look embarrassed. She just fixes it, and pushes the letter into place like it belongs there now.

Hartley hovers near the counter, pretending to reorganize a drawer I’m pretty sure he already organized last week.

I slide one last picture forward.

It’s a simple drawing of a man in a helmet with a big smile wearing turnout gear.

Firefighter.

Alaska goes still.

She stares at it longer than any of the others. Her fingers curl around the letter in front of her, then stop.

I don’t rush her. I don’t fill the silence.

She lifts her head and looks past me.

“Da,” she says, soft and quick, like she’s testing the sound more than offering it.

Hartley’s breath catches behind me.

She points to a picture on the wall, then back to the one on the table.

Hartley sinks into the chair beside her. His eyes shine. “Yeah sweet girl, that’s your dad. He was a firefighter.”

Alaska reaches up and pats his cheek, gently, then slides off the chair and pads down the hall.

“She hasn’t said anything like that,” Hartley says quietly. “Not since.”