Two men struggled with the side door, finally jerking it open. The first out were the last in—the man, the woman and two children. Along with the men at the door, they fled into the darkness. Just as the rest of us clambered on hands and knees toward the door, a patrol car pulled up right beside it and a blinding light swept through the interior. “Do not try to run. Come on out, one at a time.”
Startled, I sat up; it was a woman’s voice, speaking first in Spanish, then in English. Trembling, I held my hand up to block the light. In the dim shadow stood a figure in uniform, hair swept up in a bun, same Indian features as mine. As I slid out of the van, I saw her name pin: Rodriguez. She stood with both feet planted firmly on the ground and with an air of authority and power that I had never witnessed in a woman before. I wondered if this was what my father had seen in Dolores.
Her white male partner with a thick mustache bound our wrists with strips of plastic and instructed us to sit along the road. I thought of our similar experience after we had jumped off the Beast, only then we had been in our own country with only Manuel at stake. According to Señor José, they would probably send us back to Nogales, Mexico, and we would try again, a different route. But what if they sent us all the way back to Oaxaca—and Manuel back to Guatemala? I turned to Manuel, whose eyes looked defeated.
“You’ll do fine,” I tried to encourage him. “You have Oaxaca in your blood now—mi hermano.” I squeezed his bound hands with both of mine. But as headlights approached in the distance, and a van with Border Patrol on the side pulled up, I started to shake. Rosa and I locked eyes.
As frightened as we were, processing at the Border Patrol station was clearly a matter of routine for the officers. Despite their uniforms and imposing gun belts, they were not harsh or mean, but rather businesslike and indifferent. We were asked our names and where we were from. Manuel’s answers as our brother seemed convincing. One person asked if we had ever crossed before. We all stressed that this was our first time. We were moved to a holding cell that was already packed with other weary souls stretched out on the cement floor or slouched on a long cement bench that lined the wall. After fretting and sweating for hours, we were placed on a bus and driven back across the border to Nogales, Manuel still safely with us.
The bus drove along the tall steel fence that seemed to stretch for miles. As we curved around to the Mexican side, the sun came up, revealing the most breathtaking sight: White crosses with wreaths of flowers lining the fence. When I asked what it was, the answer made my heart stop. A tribute to those who had died crossing.
We rode in silence until the bus stopped and we solemnly filed out.
Once outside, Rosa turned to me and said, “Remember what Señor José said? This time we will walk the desert.” Her eyes searched mine, for what? Encouragement? A change of heart?
I answered, “You said yourself, we will make it. It’s meant to be.” I know my voice sounded as spiritless as I felt, so I added, “So what do you want to do?”
She paused, then shook her head. “I guess we must try again. What else can we do? The money has been paid.”
I leaned into Manuel and closed my eyes.
One member of our group, who had been through this before with Señor José, told us that, unlike most coyotes, José did not abandon his chickens, so to stay together and wait. As soon as the bus had driven off, sure enough, a man approached our group and said he was there for Señor José. I turned to Rosa who stood alone beside us. I reached out toward her, but she set her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “We will make it this time,” she said, and began to follow the others.
We never actually saw Señor José again. That evening a guide loaded us once again into the van, telling us not to worry, that we would be taking the safest route. When we pointed out that Señor José had said the other route was the safest, he simply shook his head. Exhausted, I fell asleep, my head on Manuel’s shoulder. For how long I don’t know, but when we came to a stop, I woke suddenly, my heart racing. Stiff and aching, I eased myself out of the van. We made our way through brush up a slope until we came to a stop. Ahead some distance, I could make out in the moonlight what appeared to be a tall, solid wall. Would they be able to make a hole in this one? But instead of waving us on toward the wall, our guide motioned us to follow him along a parallel trail.
When he finally stopped ahead, those beside him began to raise their voices in alarm. He scolded them to be silent. Once we caught up and gathered round, we saw what caused the concern. The dim light of his flashlight revealed a hole in the embankment barely large enough for one person to squeeze through. Rosa and I clung to each other as we listened to him say that it got larger as we descended, the length was no more than fifteen meters, that we were to pull our shirt up over our
