Vacuum in the Dark

by Jen Beagin

“It’ll take you two days to get home. You should stop in Flagstaff and spend the night, but. Be careful—I have a friend whose sister was picked up hitchhiking in New Mexico and when they found her body, she’d been raped, so.” “So . . . don’t rape any hitchhikers?” Mona said. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It’s cute when you try and act tough.” “It’s not an act,” Mona said. “I’m actually made of Teflon.” Except, as soon as she said “Teflon,” she felt the corners of her mouth pulling down. Her eyes filled up quickly and then the tears started rolling, two big fat ones. She turned away and covered her face in her hand. “Hey,” he said, and touched her shoulder. “You’re my only kid, okay? I know we’re not blood, and you’ve always been weird, and we’re nothing alike. But. So. What the hell. I accept that now.” He pulled a bandana out of his pocket. “Here.” Strange, she thought, how affected you are by malice when you’re a kid, how a mean word or look can unravel you, how devastating cruelty feels when you’re too young to protect yourself. But eventually, after all those defense mechanisms are firmly in place, it’s the so-called positive shit—mercy, not malice—that brings you to tears.