The venue was called The Vine, a rooftop wine bar slash co-op gallery slash "experimental performance lounge." It was the kind of place where furniture didn't match on purpose and no one ever ordered the cheapest wine, even though everyone was broke.
Tonight, it belonged to Danny.
Or, more accurately, to "Keep Austin Awkward: Live!"—the first public storytelling event built around Danny's persona. Sandy had set it all up: tickets, cameras, lighting, a "quirky photo booth" with plastic tacos and novelty mustaches.
Danny stood backstage behind a hanging tapestry of Willie Nelson riding a unicycle, pacing like a caged raccoon.
Devin handed him a cold can of sparkling water and said, "Your name's on the flyer. That's either a good omen or a warning."
Danny stared at the flyer taped to the wall:
> "ONE NIGHT ONLY – Danny Ruiz (The Guy From The Burrito Video)"
No pressure.
The crowd was unreal.
Packed house. People clapping. Laughing. Filming themselves for TikTok.
Sandy leaned over and whispered, "There's a talent scout here from a media collective that starts with a 'V' and ends in 'ice.' So... be yourself. But like, the monetizable version."
Danny exhaled.
Then his phone buzzed.
[Mrs. Beverly]: "Headed to ER. Don't panic. It's probably just my pancreas again. I told them you're my next of kin."
He blinked. Read it again.
And again.
Time froze.
"Everything okay?" Sandy asked.
He looked up. "I... I gotta go."
She blinked. "What?"
"My landlady. She's like family. She's in the ER."
"But the show—"
Danny shook his head. "I'm sorry."
And just like that, he walked offstage—before he even got on.
At St. David's ER, the air smelled like bleach, tension, and vending machine regret.
Danny filled out a form with his name listed under "Emergency Contact." He wasn't sure whether to be proud or completely unqualified.
A nurse led him back. Room 304. Monitors beeping. Curtains drawn.
Mrs. Beverly looked small in the hospital bed. Pale. Hooked to machines.
She squinted when she saw him. "You look like someone who ditched a gig."
"I did," he said, sitting beside her.
She smiled weakly. "Good."
"I'm your emergency contact?"
"Who else? My son's in Arizona trying to invent gluten-free cigarettes."
He laughed. Choked on it.
She patted his hand. "It's probably nothing. I've got one of those bodies that short-circuits like an old toaster but never actually dies."
A nurse came in. Took vitals. Said words like "observation" and "overnight."
Danny stayed.
He stayed through midnight. Through the lull between vitals. Through the nurse shift change and the infomercials.
He held her hand when she dozed off. Watched her chest rise and fall. Counted the beeps. Didn't open his phone.
Not once.
By morning, she was stable. Tired. Annoyed at the hospital food.
He offered to sneak her something greasy and illegal. She declined but asked for a magazine and a Twix.
He said, "Be back soon," then walked outside into the pale morning light.
His phone had 58 notifications.
He scrolled.
Messages from Sandy. From Devin. From fans he didn't know he had.
Then a video clip.
It was from last night. The show had gone on. Without him.
Sandy had jumped onstage, explained the situation, and said, "Danny's not here because someone he loves needed him more. That's not failure. That's character."
Then she'd played the original video—the one that started it all.
The crowd had cheered.
And then Devin (bless him) had grabbed the mic and told a story about the time Danny got locked in a port-a-potty during South by Southwest and tried to text his way out.
Laughter. Applause.
Comments pouring in:
> "Dude left a gig for his grandma figure? King behavior."
"Realest move of the night."
"When's the next show?"
Danny smiled. He felt no FOMO.
Only clarity.
He sat on a bus bench outside the hospital and opened his script file.
Typed:
> INT. EMERGENCY ROOM – NIGHT
A man realizes that sometimes walking away from the stage is the bravest kind of spotlight.
He saved it.
Closed the laptop.
And walked back inside.