(AV) DANNY HEBERT

Danny Hebert wasn’t a fool.

He might have spent the past two years stumbling through grief and paperwork, losing more sleep to his association disputes than he ever had to bedtime stories, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew his daughter was hiding something from him.

He didn’t know when the realization had settled in; maybe it was the second or third time he’d checked her room after midnight only to find it empty, or maybe it was the strange sounds coming from the basement. The same basement he’d made off-limits after they moved in, mostly because the stairs were rickety and there was exposed wiring in the ceiling. 

And then there were the requests.

Smelling salts? EpiPens? Last week it was protein bars, chalk dust, and industrial-grade zip ties. Before that, a small first aid kit, a can of pepper spray, and a box of protein bars even though he could’ve sworn he’d already bought it for her before. It wasn't exactly your typical teenage shopping list, unless his daughter had taken up extreme sports without telling him, or was prepping for a wilderness survival course, or—

He swallowed. No. He wasn’t ready to finish that thought yet.

But even that wasn't as worrying as the truancy.

He hadn’t brought it up, couldn’t to be honest. Every time he looked at her and thought about the call from Winslow’s administration, about the absentee record, about the careful lies she’d wrapped her words around—even when she was being open with him—his mouth went dry. He didn’t want to break the fragile, almost-peace that had settled between them since the locker incident and the subsequent stay at the hospital. But that didn’t mean he could ignore it forever.

They sat in the car now, the heater on full blast against the late winter chill, though the windshield still fogged slightly at the edges. Taylor stared out the passenger window with that distant, locked-in expression he’d seen too often lately: like she was here, physically, but her thoughts were someplace else entirely.

He drove in silence for a while, letting the whoosh of air through the vents fill the void. He told himself it was to give her space, but in truth, he just didn’t know how to begin.

She was a stranger sometimes, this tall, withdrawn girl who used to beg for his attention with LEGO sets and cereal-box science experiments. She still had that curiosity, that intensity, but now it was focused inward and hardened over time.

And he hadn’t tried hard enough to stop it.

“I looked up EpiPens,” he said at last, trying for a casual tone and landing somewhere closer to cautious. “They’re usually for people with severe allergies: bee stings, peanuts, and that sort of thing.”

Taylor blinked and turned to look at him. Her expression gave away nothing.

“You have an allergy you haven’t told me about?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “They’re not for me.”

Danny nodded slowly, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel. “Okay. Who are they for, then?”

She pulled her lips momentarily into a frown, as if considering her next words, then sighed. “I just… I thought it might be useful in an emergency.”

“You volunteering somewhere?”

In lieu of a reply, she shifted in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, and flicking her gaze back to the window.

Danny let the silence stretch a little longer this time, lips pressed into a thin line, and decided to let it go for now. Eventually, they pulled into the parking lot of the pharmacy, the old sign casting a dim glow on the windshield like it was as tired as he felt. He put the car in park and killed the engine, but didn’t move to get out yet.

“I called the school last week,” he said quietly.

Taylor froze, hands on the door handle.

“They told me you haven’t been attending for a while,” he continued, turning to look at her. “Taylor, what’s going on?”

She stared down at her lap, fingers clenching into fists over her knees.

“I didn’t want to go back,” she muttered, almost inaudible.

“Because of what happened in the locker?”

Taylor’s jaw worked silently for a moment, then she nodded slowly.

Danny closed his eyes and exhaled, his grip on the wheel loosening. The image of her lying there, pale and silent, still haunted him more than he liked to admit. But he had not wanted to press her after the hospital visit, and even months after, didn't want to reopen a wound that clearly hadn’t scabbed over yet. 

He’d wanted to believe that time would be enough, but clearly, it wouldn't ever be. Having that confirmed to him made his chest tighten.

“Taylor,” he said, turning to face her, “you should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t think you’d listen.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

“I know I’ve messed up,” he said, voice becoming raw. “After your mom died… I stopped being present. I saw that you were hurting and I didn’t know how to help, so I just… worked, burying myself in the DA. And I thought maybe if I gave you space, you’d come to me when you were ready."

Taylor didn’t say anything, but he thought he saw the tension in her shoulders soften. 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

That made her blink, and slowly, she raised her head to look at him. “I didn’t come out here so we could talk about feelings.” 

He let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, tough luck. Because I did.”

She rolled her eyes, but the motion lacked real bite. There was even a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“I mean it, Taylor,” he said, clearing his throat. “I get that things like this will take time, but if something’s going on—really going on—you can tell me. I won’t yell and I won’t ground you. I just… want you to be safe, and I want to be someone you can come to. Like before.”

She didn’t reply right away, but after a beat, she nodded. “Thanks, dad.”

They got out of the truck and walked toward the pharmacy entrance together. She didn’t take his hand—hadn’t for years—but she walked beside him, close enough that he could feel her presence in a way he hadn’t in ages.

Inside, she made a beeline for the first-aid aisle. The pharmacist politely informed them that EpiPens required a prescription, so Taylor settled for a pack of ammonia inhalants and glucose powder. Danny said nothing, only raised an eyebrow as she dropped them into the small plastic basket.

She didn’t offer an explanation, and as usual, he didn’t ask. Only this time, his thoughts raced as he thought of the weird items she bought, the sounds in the basement, and the sneaking out at night.

He wanted to believe she was just going through a phase or trying out for an extracurricular activity, maybe making art again, or joining some edgy school club. But he knew she still wasn’t telling him everything, and had noticed enough to suspect something more. Something potentially dangerous.

As they approached the register, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

Please, he thought. Please don’t be in over your head.

He was scared she already was. And god help him, he was even more scared of what he might find if he pried too deep. Not because he didn’t want to know, but because he might finally learn just how badly he’d failed her.