(AAA…) LEAST HE CAN DO

Danny Hebert was pulled violently from sleep by a sound he hadn’t heard in years: a scream.

It wasn’t the startled cry of a child jolted by a bad dream. This was raw, panicked, and animalistic. It tore through the quiet of the house, reverberating down the hallway and shattering the fragile peace of the early morning. His heart lurched into his throat.

He rolled out of bed so fast he nearly fell, sheets tangling around his ankles as he staggered upright. His feet hit the floor, and he bolted, mind still foggy with sleep but body moving on instinct, propelled by a father’s fear honed through years of worrying he would lose what little he had left.

He burst into Taylor’s room, hands up and ready to fight any attacker, but the sight stopped him cold.

She was thrashing in her bed, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, face pale and eyes wide, staring unblinking at something he couldn’t see. Each ragged breath ended in a sob or a strangled, desperate scream, and her hands flailed wildly, clawing at the sheets on either side of herself.

He stood frozen for a moment too long, his mind stuttering as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. What was happening? What could he do?

Then something deep inside him stirred, an old memory of quiet nights with his late wife, of tiny cries soothed with gentle arms, and outings with all three. It snapped him into motion.

He dropped to his knees beside her bed, hands hovering for a brief, uncertain moment before he pulled her into a careful yet firm embrace. She fought him at first, nails catching on his shirt and bare skin, heels pounding the mattress in a frenzy. But he held on anyway, arms tightening around her trembling frame, determined not to let go.

“No, no, please, no more—no more,” she sobbed, the words gasping and broken, half-coherent to his ears. “The locker… I died, I died… the bugs, the smell…” Her voice rose into a thin, piercing wail before cracking from strain.

His heart broke.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling her even closer. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He rocked her gently, murmuring whatever words of comfort came to mind over and over, the same phrases he had used when she’d woken from childhood nightmares: “I’m here, I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over now. You’re safe…”

He had no idea how long it took—minutes or hours blurred together as he held her—but gradually, her sobs quieted. Her hands unclenched themselves from his shirt, and her breathing slowed, though it remained ragged, catching now and then like the nightmare nightmare still haunted each inhale.

Her eyes fluttered shut at last, exhaustion winning out over terror. Her head rested against his chest, and she felt impossibly fragile in his arms.

Danny sat there for a long time, arms wrapped tightly around his daughter, chin resting gently on her hair. He was afraid to loosen his grip, terrified that if he let go for even a moment she might slip away into some dark place where he could never reach her.

The only sounds in the room were the soft rustle of the blankets and Taylor’s shaky, uneven breaths as she drifted closer to sleep. He barely breathed, afraid that even the smallest movement or sound might jar her back into the nightmare, but he took the risk to continue murmuring softly, hoping the steadiness in his tone would help guide her own ragged gasps toward something calmer.

He didn’t dare move until she settled, until the tension began to ease from her small frame. And when he was certain she had fallen asleep, he eased her back onto the pillows with painstaking care, tucking the blankets gently around her shoulders. A stray lock of hair had fallen across her face; he brushed it back with a hand that lingered, his heart heavy with an ache he couldn’t put into words.

He stood, legs stiff and unsteady after so long on the floor. Stepping into the darkened hallway, he stopped and glanced back at her once more, unwilling to leave her side even for a moment.

But he needed to make the call.

Moving quietly, he crossed to his bedroom and picked up his phone from the nightstand where he had left it. His hand trembled slightly as he scrolled to the number for Winslow’s attendance office, the pale glow of the screen stark against the dark room.

When the line connected, he pressed the phone to his ear and waited for the voicemail prompt. After the recorded message finally played, he swallowed hard and spoke in a low, fraught voice.

“This is Danny Hebert,” he said. “My daughter, Taylor, won’t be coming in today. She’s… unwell. She needs to rest.”

He ended the call, the quiet beep of the voicemail echoing in the stillness of the room. For a moment, he stood there in the dark, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on his shoulders like a physical thing.

Then, he walked back to her room, lingering in the doorway to watch her. Each quiet rise and fall of her chest felt like a fragile reassurance that she was still here, that she was still his. And in that silence, he made a quiet promise, spoken only in the confines of his heart: Whatever this is, whatever she’s going through, I’ll be here. I won’t fail her again.