The Truant

The voicemail from Luke's school principal was polite, clipped, and damning in its bureaucratic neutrality.

"Mr. Carter, we're calling to inform you that Luke Ellis has missed eleven days of classes this semester. As his emergency contact, we were hoping you could—"

Daniel deleted it before the message finished.

He hadn't even known he was Luke's emergency contact. That must have been Lila's doing—one of those quiet, practical things she handled without fanfare. The thought lodged in his ribs like a splinter.

The high school's front office smelled like industrial cleaner and stale coffee. A harried secretary barely glanced up as Daniel signed the visitor log.

"Luke Ellis," he said. "I'm here to—"

"Third period's in the gym," she interrupted, pointing down the hall. "Coach Briggs has him for PE."

Daniel followed the squeak of sneakers and the echo of a whistle. Through the gym doors, he saw two dozen teenagers running laps. Luke wasn't among them.

Coach Briggs wiped his forehead with a towel. "Ellis? Yeah, he's been ditching. Sits out by the dumpsters near the auto shop when he bothers to show up at all." He gave Daniel a once-over. "You his dad?"

"Brother-in-law." The word tasted strange.

A flicker of recognition. "Oh. You're—" The coach stopped, suddenly awkward. "Sorry for your loss."

Daniel clenched his jaw. "Where's the auto shop?"

Luke sat on the cracked concrete behind the school, knees drawn up, smoking a cigarette with the furtive intensity of someone who didn't actually enjoy it. He didn't notice Daniel until his shadow fell across the pavement.

The kid froze. Ash drifted from the cigarette onto his shoe.

"Those'll kill you," Daniel said.

Luke stubbed it out. "Not fast enough."

The words hung between them, ugly and true. Daniel sat down beside him, their shoulders not quite touching. The dumpster reeked of rotting cafeteria food.

"You're supposed to be in class," Daniel said.

"You're supposed to be at work."

A beat. Then, despite himself, Daniel snorted. "Touché."

Luke picked at a loose thread on his jeans. "They called you?"

"Left a voicemail."

"Shit." Luke exhaled. "I told them my aunt was out of town."

Daniel studied the kid's profile—the acne along his jaw, the way his too-long hair curled behind his ears. He looked younger than eighteen. Younger than he had at the funeral.

"Lila would've kicked your ass for skipping," Daniel said.

Luke's throat worked. "Yeah, well. She's not here."

The words were a grenade. Daniel let the silence settle around the blast radius.

A bell rang inside. Distant shouts echoed as classrooms emptied.

"You gonna tell my aunt?" Luke asked finally.

Daniel considered it. "No."

Luke shot him a wary glance.

"But you're coming home with me tonight," Daniel continued. "And you're eating something that isn't vending machine crap. And tomorrow, you're going to class."

Luke scowled. "You're not my dad."

"No," Daniel agreed. "I'm the guy who knows what it's like to want to disappear." He stood, brushing concrete dust from his jeans. "So? You coming?"

For a long moment, Luke didn't move. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, he pushed himself up.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Whatever."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't healing. But it was a start.