A young woman on the phone screen struts down the cold and busy Los Angeles sidewalk, the skirt of her beige cashmere coat flowing around her as her shiny black heels tap the ground. Each controlled step exudes elegance, grace, and a rare sense of controlled self-assurance. She continues walking through the crowded palm-tree-lined streets, under narrow scaffolding; a stylish vision crossing between dozens of obscure businesses, pedestrians, and cars in congested roads. She walks as if the city were her runway, as if everyone around her were merely her audience. And they are. Her eyes shrink in sincerity as she grins radiantly behind her. She flips her long, voluminous black hair, gathering it in her slender knuckles and letting it pour down her back in curling waves.

Her father, watching the screen, remembers all the cherished afternoon walks that have become boxes in the digital landscape of her social media profile. Visual treats for her three hundred thousand or so followers, who will become further entranced (or even enraged) as they watch the zoomed-in reactions of awestruck men next to their scornful wives, who twist their lips while hiding enviously behind cheap sunglasses and thin frizzy hair. Her father, Francisco, remembers each and every walk because he was the one who recorded them.

He chuckles and shakes his head before passing his daughter her phone back across a round table overflowing with desserts. Why put the attention on others? He thinks to himself. He watches his daughter lean back into the cozy wicker chair, smiling quietly to herself as she scrolls through her phone. Why care what they think about you, why show it this way? The truth is, there are a lot of things Francisco doesn't really get about his twenty-three year old daughter. Ah wait, no, twenty-five? Time froze for two years when the pandemic hit, you can't blame him for forgetting her age. What he does understand is that she's at the age where she's finally becoming sure of who she is.

Once upon a time, she was her own biggest hater, as they say. Today she's her own biggest fan. And now half her audience hates her, the other half wants to be her, and the other half doesn't know que chingados quieren, what the hell they want. Clearly, math isn't his strength, unlike his daughter. It doesn't make sense why she chose to be an influencer and waste her impressive math skills, or why she chose to go to that expensive beauty school when she probably could've earned scholarships to attend a research school.

A troubled look suddenly passes over Mercedes's face, and she stops scrolling to stare closer at her screen. Francisco stabs a fork into his chocolate drizzled, frosted strawberry adorned crepe, waiting for her to clue him in on what's bothering her. Instead, Mercedes scoffs at something on the phone and runs her fingers down her hair– she always seems to do this when she's nervous. Francisco glances around the cafe while munching, surprised at how many solitary young people there are working behind laptops. Even the ones seated in pairs might as well be trapped in secluded bubbles where silent conversations pass between person and device, and not person to person.

"Are you going to eat your crepes or are you just gonna let them sit there?" He finally asks. He's only in the city for three days before he has to get back on the road.

"Hm?" Mercedes's head raises in acknowledgement before her dark eyes do. "Oh yeah, I just had to reply to some comments really quick."

"While we're having breakfast?"

Mercedes tilts her head and pouts, as if she were looking at a clueless little kid and not the fifty-year old man that is her father. "Dad, don't take it personal. If I reply to comments often then the algorithm will push my content out to more people, and if I create more engagement then I get more money! Three hundred K is just the start," she says, scrolling on her phone again. "If I reply to at least fifty comments before the twenty-four hours after I post pass then I could boost my viewer percentages and ideally I'll have grown by another ten K in the next three or so months. Essentially, it's important."

Francisco tenses at the word. Essential. His boss's ugly sarcastic voice echoes in his head. You're an essential worker, don't worry man. You won't get laid off. Just do the extra hours, don't fall asleep at the wheel and don't get yourself killed. Easy!

At last, Mercedes delicately sets her phone face-down on the table. She holds her manicured hands together before gesturing to the table in a gentle sweeping motion. "My attention is all yours now, I promise. I was so distracted with work I didn't realize I was starving!"

Her father grunts a laugh. The two sit in comfortable silence for a bit, savoring the fruity sweetness of the crepes. Francisco washes it down with black coffee while Mercedes sips a mimosa. Mercedes wants to know how the trucking's going, if he's encountered any anomalies during his long interstate expeditions. When it's his turn to ask about her job, he makes the mistake of asking about her new perfume line. Mercedes tilts her head in confusion before letting out a gentle laugh. Dad, are you asking about the hair treatment? Her father apologizes, making a joke about women and all their confusing products. It's so easy to mix them up! Mercedes seems to forgive him for his well-intentioned blunder, because she laughs too. She tells him that sales for her new brand of hair treatment are going well thanks to her social media, and that she hopes one day the business can make enough money to start producing a perfume line.

"Thanks for breakfast, Dad," Mercedes smiles as they step out of the cafe onto the already-busy city sidewalk. "Seriously, I could have paid though!"

"No, no." Francisco waves his hand, motioning for her to not even suggest it. He's the parent here. Not that he'd ever admit it, because of course he appreciates it, but it stings his pride enough that she pays him to take her videos. He does it out of love, not because he expects to be compensated.

"I'm actually headed to the office right now, would you mind taking videos on the way?"

"Of course," he says affectionately, opening up the camera app. "You look beautiful in that coat."

"Mama always had good style," she says softly while staring into the distance. "Anyway! You're the sweetest. Love you!" She squeals, fluffing her hair out of her fur coat and adjusting her gloves.

Francisco falls into their familiar routine: Mercedes strolling confidently and Francisco following inconspicuously behind her. As usual, everyone's rushing past to get to work. An older woman wearing a baseball cap looks at Mercedes for a second to avoid running into her. Two or three men's eyes linger as they pass by, but the gaze really lasts less than a second. Nothing about these walks resemble what is seen online. In her videos, Mercedes is the main character. Out here on the streets, she's just another person rushing off to work. All of these people, just rushing to the place where they become machines rusting away under someone else. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, forever and ever. It never ends until the day you die. Really, is that all life is? If you saw a pretty girl walking by, maybe you'd appreciate her beauty for the few seconds of distraction it offers from this gray world and its static redundancy.

Mercedes turns back and smiles at her father, as if seeking reassurance. He grins in return, her soft eyes holding the power to pull him out of the background and remind him he's more than another cog in the machine. He only hopes she didn't see the momentary hopelessness in his eyes. Mercedes laughs gleefully, genuinely this time, not like at the cafe. The way her adorable laugh bubbles out, combined with her smile, is shockingly reminiscent of her late mother. Francisco feels a pang in his heart– pain? Hope? How to explain, looking for the dead in the face of another? They smile, their gaze piercing your very soul because for a moment you recognize the person you lost, and they're smiling right at you. It can't be– yet somehow it feels like their very presence is in the same space. Francisco's heart stops for a second as he tries to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes. I see you, I see you! He wishes his wife would know, if she were really there. That smile seems to carry a message from the beyond: Everything is alright. I'm ok now, I want you to be ok.

"Thanks Dad, send me the videos when you can!" Mercedes hugs him before going into a sleek building. When she leaves, he realizes he's still standing out there. A gust of wind blows a discarded plastic bag across the cement. Just like that, the moment is over.

***

Francisco walks into an empty cluttered house. Now that breakfast is done, he has the whole day to do.. what? There are soda cans and leftovers from DoorDash sitting on the kitchen table. You'd think a whole family ate dinner the night before, but there hasn't been a whole family in the house in years. Mercedes moved out a year ago. He hasn't changed anything in her girly room since she left, maybe to make the space feel less lonely. Francisco paces the silent hall. There's nothing to do. He feels weak, and every muscle in his body is tense. He rubs his aching neck before finally deciding to sink down on the couch and scroll through social media. He sees his cousin at a blurry concert, then watches a dog get smacked by a cat, a tractor getting flipped into the mud, a trucker he met in Montana drinking beer at a party, a random person talking about why some celebrity should get canceled. On and on he scrolls, waiting for something but not sure what. Almost half an hour later, he remembers why he went online in the first place. He goes to Mercedes's profile, and does what she told him not to. He opens the comments section.

You are so beautiful! Many seem to say, in one iteration or another. I want to be you. Love your confidence! She's a queen. Look at all the men drooling! Please tell me where you got that dress! How do you get your hair to look so full and healthy?! Such miserable people, you can tell by the way they look at her. Why do all the women look so mad? Am I the only one who thinks she's doing too much? No one cares. I don't get it, she's not even that pretty? They're only looking because they see the camera, you're not special lol. They're only looking at you because you're dressed out of place. 100% botox. I live in LA, hopefully we run into each other one day darling... I wish women still dressed classy like this, now they just dress like sluts and expect you not to look. Disgusting. You're beautiful, but these videos ain't it.

Franscisco's mind flashed back to his daughter's preoccupation at the cafe, the obsessive way she scrolled and typed. Apparently, she only responded to the positive comments. This meant she was picking and choosing. And clearly, she was reading almost every single one. His chest burned with anger. How could she live like this? How can she smile and pretend everything is fine? He'd asked her this before. She'd always shrugged it off, explaining that only a small percentage of her day is devoted to comment-replying so it's not a big deal. He knows the truth. Hateful words aren't easily forgotten. They cut through the days when you least expect them to, especially on the days when you least need them to.

His wife seems to stalk him from her portrait above the fireplace. I'm sorry, Perla. He casts his head down. What kind of father is he if he can't protect his daughter? He feels as if he's glued to the couch. Despite his headache and dehydration, he can't stand. His hands are magnetized to his phone. Scroll, scroll, scroll. He is captivated by a sudden curiosity, a need to drown himself in the past. Before it became a pixelated box, each video and photo was a moment. Before it became static, life was color. Although there are hardly any pictures of him, at some point scrolling back he can see the same emptiness reflected in Mercedes' eyes. The Static. What was it like, before it all went to shit?

The first photo she ever posted was the one her father took— on March 6, 2020– as they ate chiles rellenos at Mercedes's favorite restaurant for her twenty-third birthday. This was a year before Perla fell sick. A week before everything shut down. The three of them had been seated on the rooftop terrace, where potted dahlias and greenery outlined the balcony in front of the vibrant city. Mercedes had been mesmerized by the nighttime view when her father surprised her with a candid shot. She loved it so much; she'd keep it posted for years. Perla had held Francisco's hand under the table, pleased with the spark of confidence he'd brought their daughter. When was the last time he'd felt the warmth of his wife's hand?

Now, the only warmth comes from the rays of a hazy sun setting behind the dusty living room curtains as he sits alone glued to his couch. Is this how Perla felt, unable to get up? Unable to escape from the hospital bed that became her prison, from the body that became her own coffin? Francisco lets out a deep sigh and pinches his nose while rubbing his eye with his thumb. Don't think about that. The past is the past. Better to focus on the now. Would Perla be proud of him now? He was absent most of their daughter's childhood, but at least he's been making a stronger effort these past few years.

Back then, his wife had disagreed with his idea of love. Francisco had adhered to this strict notion of love for decades, including the first twenty-three years of his daughter's life. Love was working hard. Love was putting up with the asshole boss who scheduled you to work on holidays, birthdays, and graduations so you could provide for your family. He made up for his absence with expensive gifts. His wife would adore showing off her luxury brand clothing, handbags, and jewelry. Mercedes would rejoice as she dressed up her Barbies in their new sparkling dresses and figured out where to put the jacuzzi set in her grandiose dollhouse. You don't spend enough time with her, his wife would later say. One day, she's going to look back and remember a father who always worked to provide for her, but she won't have any memories with you. We're growing old, viejo. You'll regret not making more memories with your daughter. Who would have thought, the one person he'd regret the most not making more memories with was his wife. There are certain things in life you don't realize until it's too late.

There are no posts for April 7, 2021. There are no posts for the rest of April and May. His careful scrolling lands on an old post of Mercedes sitting on the white Bunker Hill steps next to a railing of cascading water. Her slender hand shields her face from the camera. Below the 73 likes is a small string of gray text that reads June 27, 2021.

After his wife passed, Francisco had become determined to make up for lost time. He would take Mercedes out to popular lunch spots in LA, while Mercedes would take him to "hidden gems" she'd found on Instagram. Mercedes' confidence had risen through the inheritance of her mother's luxurious wardrobe, as she would often ask her father to take more candids. Francisco had been more than happy to take her photos on days off of work. These photo sessions became a sacred bond between a father who wanted to make up for his past regrets, and a daughter who just wanted to be seen.

Francisco chuckled as he scrolled through Mercedes' old posts. She'd changed so much. Back then, she wouldn't dare show her face. Her self-conscious teenage complaints carried over into silent shames in young adulthood, revealed through the way she covered her long nose or tucked her head down so hair would fall over her thick eyebrows. The photos often went something like this: Back turned towards the camera. Hide the face, but show the hair. Dad, stand far away— no, farther—focus on the scenery. Mercedes had mimicked how she believed models in magazines and billboards posed: by switching positions every few seconds. Turn. Lift the empty glass. Smile. Look away. Fix hair. Look back. Fix smudged lipstick with painted fingernail. Rearrange plate with eggs and half-eaten loaf of bread into frame, clattering fork. Tuck strands behind the ear. Untuck, hide the ears. Toss hair back. Stop smiling. Reach for the camera. Dad. You're doing it wrong.

Mercedes' old pictures consisted of authentic process, blurry movements of an elbow bending to comb away the hair, indecisive wind pulling her curls this way and that, and one even capturing her mid-walk. Whether out of frustration for what she felt were wasted efforts at showcasing her beauty or a wish to please her father, she posted them anyway. Francisco figured he wasn't doing it so wrong after all. After all... now she shows her face. Now she has the whole world watching. Now she is successful. Independent. It's good. Everything is right. So, why doesn't it feel right?

***

"Where's the damage?" Francisco's voice echoes through the expansive living room of Mercedes' apartment. The coat rack next to the entrance is overflowing with fur coats, hats, scarves, and purses. He catches his thick-browed reflection in a mirror, but his gaze is stolen by a large Gucci leather handbag sitting on the wooden table in front of the mirror. Next to it are Mercedes' keys. A Dior hair clip. Dangling Chanel earrings. Under the table are Pink Prada heels with white little bows. Imagine having so much money and spending it on this. Surprisingly, the rest of the room is lightly furnished.

"Over here!" Mercedes gestures, disappearing around the corner into a hallway. Her steps reverberate on the smooth wooden floor.

Francisco follows, taking in the view of her matching furniture set: a fluffy white carpet, a beige couch with pillows, marble countertops, flatscreen TV, a tall potted leaf plant, and three damn frames for the same simple sketch of a flower in three different colors. There's a cream colored blanket draped over the edge of a couch where a tablet lies open on a page full of boxes with numbers. He's not sure what annoys him more, the careless position of the tablet on the edge of the couch, the soulless frames, or the pipirisnáis– the extraness– of it all.

"Sorry about the mess, I've just been so stressed. You know, it takes so long for this stupid thing to heat up at night and then cool down in the morning. I don't even know what to do anymore. My electricity bill is so high. I already have way too much to deal with, and then this? I don't get it!"

"Let's see what the problem is," Francisco interrupts gently as he kneels to inspect the HVAC unit on the wall. Sure enough, the vents are coated with dust. "You need to change your filter. Do you know what size yours is?"

"What."

Obviously not. "Right, I forgot they don't teach you that when you're earning your cosmetology diploma."

"Um? Yeah, they don't teach how to clean air vents for a degree in Beauty Marketing and Product Development. Anyway... While you do that I'm going to raise the temperature, it's cold in here."

Francisco rubs his eyebrows and takes in a breath. "Mija. I need you to turn off the system."

"Ok ok sorry, I don't know about this stuff. I turned it off, what now?" She says, kneeling next to him. She's grown up now, but sometimes she's still a little girl. His expression and voice softens as he explains how to undo the latches carefully and remove the old filters without spilling debris, how to read the old filter for the size, how to dust and clean the vent covers with a rag, and how to position the new filter with the arrows pointing up into the wall following the air flow. Mercedes nods in full attention. Because they don't have a new air filter, Francisco offers to buy one at the local hardware store.

When he returns to the apartment building, a well-groomed young man opens the lobby door for him. The young man looks him directly in the eyes and smiles. That's a first. Most people in this building either pass him by with their heads held high or with an obvious side-eye. Francisco enters the elevator and presses the button for the seventh floor. Seven floors! At twenty-six, his daughter lives alone in a luxury apartment suite. At twenty-six, he lived with his wife in a cramped apartment where the paint on walls peeled off, where the rusty window didn't close unless you slammed it, where the drunk neighbor bellowed and banged the windows next door after locking himself out for the hundredth night. For the simple luxury of shelter, Francisco worked long hours– months at a time– long haul trucking. For this classic luxury– a high-rise suite with a balcony– all Mercedes had to do was go viral on Instagram posting pretty videos.

Viral. Jealousy is a disease. But he's not jealous, you can't possibly be jealous of your own daughter. Of course he's proud of her. Every father wants his daughter to go farther than he. He'd be lying if he said he expected her success to come to fruition this fast. Two years out of college and she's achieved it all. What the hell did he do with his life? What happened to working hard– to pouring blood, sweat and tears into work? That's what makes it worth it. Still, she found a way to make it work. If there's another pandemic, she won't suffer like her parents did. She can work from home.

While all the other jobs switched to remote, trucking was deemed essential. Francisco wasn't afforded the same flexibility, especially with the increase in online orders. The government didn't care. The economy matters more than human life, don't you forget it. The world doesn't care how hard you work, what matters is how much profit they squeeze out of you. He thought things would change, but his hopes collapsed the moment the FMCSA– that damn Federal Motor Carrier "Safety" Administration– waived their working hours limits. The roads were empty, but that didn't make it less dangerous. It made it more tempting for some truckers to speed and for others to accidentally fall asleep while working overtime. Being an essential worker didn't mean his employment was assured. Thousands of drivers, including a couple of his cross-state companions, were laid off because the industry could not sustain its payroll.

Perla and Francisco had dreamed of paying off Mercedes's student debt. Beauty school is ridiculously expensive. When Francisco had confessed his fears of getting laid off, Perla set to find her own job. She called, filled out online applications, and got nothing back. Francisco remembered feeling like he'd been stabbed in the back when she went out to seek jobs in person. It wasn't even because he was worried she'd get infected. If anything, he thought the world was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. He hadn't seen anyone he knew get sick yet. He felt betrayed when she went out because it meant she didn't trust in his worth as a worker. Just because he told her he was worried didn't mean he was giving up, dammit. How useless did she think he was? I got it all under control. Why don't you believe in me? Door slams echoed in his head. He remembered shouting, slamming his fist on the table in the middle of conversations. Who do you blame when everything goes wrong? Who can you blame when the world's moved on, when you're the only one stuck with this isolating static state?

When Francisco arrives at her apartment suite, he's surprised to spot a vase of fresh roses sitting on the dining table.

"Wooow, who got you those?" He raises an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Oh, no one," Mercedes waves a hand while blushing. "A friend of mine stopped by to drop off an early birthday gift."

"Hmm, so it's not from a boyfriend? A certain well-dressed gentleman?"
"Dad!" Mercedes laughs while pouring hibiscus tea into a glass with ice spheres. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"What? You've never introduced me to your partners, so I have to be curious."

"Do you want some agua de jamaica?" she attempts to distract him.

"Nah, you don't have a chela?"

"Ewe, you know I don't drink beer."

"Fine, pour me some. You're not off the hook yet. Who's this guy? Why haven't you introduced me to anyone yet?"

"Jeez Dad, nosy much?" Mercedes rolls her eyes. She hands him his glass of jamaica and says casually, "I haven't met anyone worth introducing you to yet, that's all."

"Mm, if you say so." Francisco chews on an ice orb, as if stuck in a trance. He tried so hard to be close with his daughter, yet she won't open up to him. It's a simple question, really. An important question. Sure he's not obligated to know, but he wished she would at least spill a detail or two. Then he could impart his fatherly wisdom, warn her if the guy was a "red flag", as the young people say. He decides to approach from a different avenue. "No boyfriend, huh. What about friends? I never see you post anyone."

Mercedes glances at him over the rim of her glass. "I do have friends, dad. You're not the only one I hang out with."

"Ouch, ok. Do you also take them to breakfast?"

"Yeah we go out together, I just don't post them because it's a business account. It's more straightforward to my consumers if I'm the image of my brand. I only take pictures while I'm with some of them, though. Like, I won't take pictures with Sierra because she's too photo-clingy. She wants to be in all my pictures when I only want selfies. Jaimie, on the other hand, knows how to get the best angles. Ugh, Jaimie's the best. Oh but my ex would get annoyed when I took photos of my dinner and not of him. He was kind of an egomaniac."

"He sounds crazy," her father pretends to agree. Was her ex annoyed because she didn't take pictures of him, or because she wasted too much attention on her social media? He pretends the disclosure didn't hurt. It was foolish to believe he was the only one in his daughter's life. But for Francisco, she was the only person left in his.

***

Confetti pops out of a white rectangle on screen as the countdown reaches 00:00:00. It's March 6, 2024. The scene in Mercedes's story from this morning displays a circle of six hands clinking champagne glasses. She finally posted others, at least part of them. Francisco puts down his phone when he hears Mercedes calling him from behind some potted dahlias.

"Take one of me on the railing, Dad!" Mercedes smiles beautifully, posing radiantly in a glittering violet knee-length dress. She adjusts her fluffy hair so that it falls in curtains around her face, highlighting her classic dark brows and elegant long nose. Francisco and his daughter are at her favorite restaurant again, this time to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday. He takes her photos on the rooftop terrace in front of the ivy-wrapped railing, under the eyes of LA skyscrapers reflecting moonlight.

Glass. Glass skyscrapers. Glass walls. They separate the outside from the inside. A glass wall and his KN95 mask had been the only physical barriers separating him from his wife, who had lied just a few feet away in a hospital bed two years ago. Intubated. Comatose. Her eyes were shut. The wrinkles around her eyes, the ones she got from smiling so often, had sagged. Perla had looked anything but peaceful. How could the doctors do this to her? How could he do this to her? What if he had made the wrong decision, and intubating her had been the reason she didn't get better? Would this have been what she wanted? He quickly sucks in a sharp breath, feeling it knot inside his throat. A decision is a decision. Once you make a decision, you need to have the confidence to stick with it. When was the last time he held his wife's hand? He had wondered this even as he stared into the glass window. If he knew that the time he held her hand was going to be the last, he would have held on tighter. Let me touch my wife. Let me hold her hand, please, so she knows I'm here. Please. I just want her to know I'm waiting for her to get better.

Sir, you can't. Sir. Only nurses are allowed back there. Just stay back.

Please. Please. Please. Please please please!

Dad. Dad. Dad?

Mercedes's voice fades in and out before he realizes he's not in the hospital in April 2021; he's not on a rooftop terrace in March 2020 with his wife and daughter; he's on a rooftop terrace in March 2024 with only his daughter, who's slowly growing up and leaving him behind to fade into dust. His vision is blurry and he's trembling. Mercedes pulls a chair out for him and he collapses into it, trying to catch his breath.

"Dad, are you ok?" She kneels next to him and speaks softly.

He's slowly regaining control of his breath. Before he can stop himself he mutters, "Why did you have to go to that expensive beauty school?"

"Is this about my school?" She asks gently.

"No. It's about everything. Why do you need validation from random people online? From friends you don't even care about? What about your family? Your mom wanted to pay off your loans. That's why she went out to get a job. That's why she–"
"That's why she got infected. That's why she died. That's what you were going to say, right?" Mercedes snaps.

Her father says nothing. He stares at a dirty napkin stuck on the ground, wishing this moment weren't real. What the hell were those words coming out of his mouth?

"You don't have to say it." Mercedes continues. "I think it every day of my life. The last thing I needed was to hear it from you. This whole time, this is really how you felt? We're supposed to support each other," she finally chokes back a sob. "I'm confused. You- You're the one who told me to follow my dreams, and to follow through on my decisions. I did that, I did it for you guys, and now you don't approve?"

"No, no, no," Francisco rubs his head and tries to reach for her hand. "I do approve–"

Mercedes snaps her hand back. "No you don't! You never did. You never ever listen to me. I told you what my degree was but you call it cosmetology. I sell hair treatment but you think I sell perfume. You think I have a profile for validation but I own a successful business. Why do I bother correcting you all the time? You clearly don't care! I thought you loved me." His daughter wipes away her tears, mascara staining her cheeks. He picks up a clean napkin but it's too late. She's storming out of the restaurant, sobbing. All because of him.

Later that night, Francisco tries to call. He would have gone to her apartment, but the last thing he wanted was to corner her. He knew he had to go to sleep soon. The day ahead would be long and lonely. He called once more before midnight. No answer. He can't hold back any longer. Francisco breaks down, sinking into the floor in despair.

When he got the call from the hospital on April 7, 2021, the day Perla's heart had stopped beating, he didn't say anything. He couldn't find the right words to say. In moments like those, he'd learned, it was best to say nothing at all, rather than say the wrong thing. He'd held Mercedes's trembling hand in his. One of us has to stay strong for the both of us. It's only us now. It's only us, it's only us, it's only us now. He had replayed the words like a mantra in his head. He couldn't decide whether these words were to give him strength or if they were the chilling realization of an involuntary loneliness. In moments like this, family is supposed to stick together. All he had wanted was to run away to where he would be free to completely break down, collapse these colossal walls, to scream, to yell, to just be...

The sound of his daughter's stifled sobs finally breaking free from her own emotional self-containment had torn at something in him that day. His hand had let go of hers and he held her small frame in his arms as she shook and wept. The frantic need to escape had faded away, if just for a moment, to become replaced by the fatherly urge to protect. The day her mother died was the only day he saw her cry, until today.

How could he hurt the one person he loved most in the world, the one person he had left? Perla and Francisco wanted to give her the world. Was it so wrong, that Mercedes succeeded in giving it to herself?

***

Endless fields of dry grass and distant mountains roll past the truck's open window. The stars are twinkling, slowly disappearing in a twilight sky. During these lonely times, Francisco often finds himself tuning into oldies on the radio that remind of his family. The same oldies he and his wife would dance to. The same songs Mercedes would overlay on her social media videos. A knot of regret tightens in his throat. He can't think of Mercedes without remembering the awful night before. He wishes he could tell her that she deserved her success. It wasn't a traditional path, but she followed through on her own decision nonetheless. This was the paternal guidance he wanted her to take, if any at all.

She had always been the apple of his eye: golden, healthy, and full of life. He knew it from the moment he first held her as a newborn in his arms. He still remembers the way her tiny head fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, the way her glossy dark eyes squinted up at him, and the precious smile that spread across her lips inviting him to laugh with the purest form of happiness he'd ever felt. He wanted nothing more than to protect his little girl, to make sure she always felt cherished.

If she couldn't feel cherished by him, then he hopes, regretfully, she at least feels cherished by her friends, or even the strangers that follow her online. Francisco tries to call again. No answer. It goes to voicemail instead. He gulps down the knot in his throat, urging himself to talk.

"Hey, mija. I... I hope you're ok. You grew up so fast. I don't understand a lot of things, but... I'm proud of you. I love you, ok? Ok. Bye."

He's met with a piercing beep followed by silence. The road ahead stretches into an illusion of perpetual darkness, lit up only by the headlights of his solitary truck.