One step at a time, I told myself, just like solving a complicated math problem. Turning on my side, I could hear Rosa’s breaths soft and easy. I closed my eyes again and summoned my Dolores spunk. ¡Sí, se puede! I could do this. I just needed a few hours of sleep.
It was late afternoon when Orlando returned to our room looking dog-tired and disheveled. He pulled up a chair, plopped down, and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped between them. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve got some important news for you.”
Rosa and I exchanged a glance as we sat side by side on the edge of the bed. Manuel straightened up, resting his back against the headboard.
Orlando’s eyes brightened as he began, “First of all, my sister is to know nothing about these details. Okay? She believes, as agreed to by our father, that we are helping you get settled in Nogales, close enough to the border to take other matters into your own hands. She wanted me to help you find a place to stay and some work to get by for now. For this, she gave me a certain amount of money. She promised our father she would do nothing more, although I know she wishes she could.” He sat back, stretched out his legs, and crossed his arms against his chest. “Well, I promise my father nothing! I can help you get across the border—or at least I know someone. Now don’t get me wrong, this is not an area I am experienced in. I just know people who are, and this guy, well, I have done him a few favors, and he owes me. So because of that and this money, he has agreed to get the three of you across.” He paused, “What do you think?”
We all spoke at once, a jumble of excited responses. “Are you serious?” “But how?” “Is this really possible?”
Manuel moved down to the end of the bed. “He’s a coyote?” Orlando nodded. “A journey across the border is always uncertain, no matter whose hands you are in. It may be smooth—Señor José is a good man, a good businessman—then again, you never know. It all depends on the patrols. Anything can happen. I want you to understand that. Now, I can give you the details, unless you want to use the money to take some time in Nogales and find your way on your own. Your ride should be here shortly.”
By noon the next day, we were sitting in an empty house in northern Nogales, Mexico, with ten other men, women, and children, waiting for Señor José’s instructions. The house was fairly isolated, situated at the end of a dirt road and surrounded by trees and brush. Rosa and I hadn’t had a chance to really talk beyond our rapid-fire decision in Orlando’s presence. Our ride to Nogales the night before had not arrived until two in the morning, so our sleep had been in restless spurts and our goodbye to Orlando hurried and brief. Rosa and I both felt we had not been able to adequately thank the Garcias but decided we would send a long letter when we were settled somewhere with good news to share. We would show the same kindness to someone else in need one day.
We had been dropped off at the house earlier, just as the sun was rising. A woman with tired eyes met us at the door and instructed us to be quiet. Glancing around the unfurnished house, we saw people stretched out on the floor sleeping. We were given water bottles and blankets and told to drink water to get hydrated and try to sleep—for we would be traveling that night. We found a corner, laid out our blankets, and settled in. Rosa and I whispered about our fears and excitement that we would actually be crossing that night, but even our whispers filled the quiet room. So we lay back, closed our eyes, and as exhausted as we were, we managed to doze off a bit.
A few hours later, we were awakened and told to gather in the front room as Señor José had arrived. We all took turns looking out the front window to see the man who would be leading us to our new lives. Manuel said Señor José looked like a boxer: small, but muscular, and quick on his feet. I could see him hopping over boulders and scurrying through canyons. He carried a small phone that fit in his hand. I watched as he pushed buttons with his thumbs, then paced back and forth beside his truck as he talked, his hand to his ear. His voice rose and fell smoothly in melodic Spanish one minute, then cut to the harsh, choppy sounds of English.
Just as we were told by Orlando, a young woman who was unpacking food and water bottles said that we were in good hands. “If you do as he says, and God is with you, you will make it with little trouble. But if you stray from his advice,” she paused, and then shaking a finger at us, she said in a voice like a croaking frog, “you will rot in the sun.”
She then went on to tell us about two men who had grown impatient waiting for a group to assemble and had left on their own for the border, only to return a
