“You did this before?” I asked.
“Sort of. We snuck in with the luggage. This is a bit nicer. It’s a separate compartment, and there’s actually a mat and pillow to lie on.”
“But the next ride will be much longer!” I said. “Manuel, what if you can’t breathe?”
“I can breathe. Don’t worry. It’s a nice little coffin—relax,” he teased.
But I could tell he was not feeling well. And this was after only six hours. “Maybe there is some way Orlando can let you sit on the bus,” I tried. But I knew the answer.
“I don’t want to take that chance. We’ve been lucky so far, no checkpoints. But let’s stick to the plan. I’ll be fine.”
Orlando put me somewhat at ease when he met us with two large jugs of water—I hoped for Manuel. As before, he told us where to board the bus and led Manuel away. Once we were settled in our seats, Orlando appeared carrying only one jug. This time he spoke to a few passengers near the front, then leaned toward us and said, “How’s everything, ladies?” Then in a whisper, “I made sure your friend was quite comfortable.”
Some hours later, I fell asleep only to be awakened when we stopped for a time in the Mazatlán terminal. I saw Orlando step off the bus with his jug of water and return with a large cup of coffee. As he glanced at us, my sleepy eyes widened; he gave a quick nod. Relieved, I fell back asleep.
Though we rode along the coast through the night, I saw nothing of the ocean, but I did relax in the cool night air. As the breeze blew in through the open windows, I was relieved to think that at least Manuel would not be roasting.
When we finally arrived in the city of Hermosillo on a bright sunny morning, I felt such excitement. “Rosa, Rosa—we’re just hours from the border! ¿Puedes creerlo? And no checkpoints at all! We made it! Can you believe it?”
“Yes, I can,” she said, shushing me and trying to stand and straighten her back. “I feel like I’ve been riding forever.”
We hobbled with the rest of the passengers toward the front of the bus and then waited while they unloaded the luggage. Once finished, Orlando nodded and went around toward the back to get Manuel. A few minutes passed.
“Should we go in the back and see?” I asked.
“No, he said to wait here.” So, we waited, but still no Orlando—or Manuel.
“Something’s wrong. Lo sé.”
Loosening Rosa’s grasp, I pulled away from her and ran toward the back of the bus. Just as I reached the rear tires, Orlando came around the corner, and I stopped dead in my tracks. His face was contorted, his eyes wild.
“I can’t . . . I can’t wake him up,” he gasped, and my knees buckled beneath me.
9
Nogales
“Water—get some cold water and ice,” I heard Orlando say, as he grabbed my elbow. Leaning into him, I looked back and saw Rosa running toward the terminal.
“I have a water bottle in my pack,” I said, steadying myself.
He nodded, and we hurried around the rear of the bus.
Manuel, bare chested, was slumped inside the compartment, his legs dangling over the edge. Orlando’s blue uniform shirt sat in a heap beside him. His head was tipped back with his eyes closed and his mouth open; water dripped down his chin where Orlando may have tried to get him to drink. The half-full jug of water sat open beside him.
I climbed in and placed my hands on either side of his face. His skin was hot to touch, and his breaths short and rapid.
“Manuel, Manuel!” I pleaded, “Por favor, open your eyes. Talk to me. Manuel! ¡Háblame, cariño!”
He stirred and moaned.
“He needs fresh air and some cool water,” Orlando said.
He leaned in and lifted Manuel’s limp arm up and placed it around his neck. “Straighten his legs,” he instructed me.
As I bent and reached for his legs, the sharp odor of urine stung my nose. His jeans were soaked. Once we had his legs before him, I sat on the edge beside him and put his other arm around my neck.
“Let’s see how far we can get walking him like this,” Orlando said. “If we can just get him to a bench inside where it’s cooler, we can tend to him. We’ll say he’s drunk, if anyone asks. And if he’s doesn’t improve—we’ll get him some help and deal with the consequences. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Ready? ¿Estás lista?” he asked. He slowly stood, securing his other arm around Manuel’s waist and hoisting him up.
I moved with them, supporting Manuel on my side as best as I could. Together we limped along. I could feel the heat from Manuel’s body against mine. His legs staggered between us, but he began to breathe deeper with occasional coughs in between. Orlando strained with each step.
“Don’t look at anyone,” he grunted. “Just keep walking until I find a spot to set him down. Stay calm. We can’t afford to draw attention.”
We made it into the terminal and headed for the first bench. Suddenly, a man, wearing the same uniform shirt as Orlando, approached from the right, motioning me aside, and scooped an arm under Manuel, helping Orlando set him down.
“A stowaway?” he asked with a hint of disgust in his voice.
Orlando groaned. “I wish.” He shook his head. “My nephew—who apparently ‘stowed away’ some tequila. Got drunk in the back of my bus. Kids, nothing but trouble. That’s why I never had any of my own. ¡No gracias!”
“Ah,” the man nodded knowingly. “Need some clean up on the bus?”
“Already notified,” Orlando said smoothly, “but thanks for your help. We’ve got it from here.”
Rosa cautiously approached once the man turned away. She was carrying two cups, one with ice and one full of cold water. I scooped a few
