This is the fourth installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.
They drove up to the Mexican-American border, hidden under the bed-cover of the Coyote’s pick-up.
It was a moonless night, and the milky way, a large violet streak, like the tracks left behind by a jetliner, divided the sky down the middle. The Coyote pointed the way: “Walk towards that star. An SUV will be waiting on the other side.”
Day broke a few hours later. The sun’s heat was oppressive, indifferent…cold. The sand seemed to conspire with its ruthless ruler. The days of traveling on nothing but canned food caught up to them. They began to carry each other in an ill-conceived attempt to save energy. They kept walking. There was no SUV.
Choco climbed up a tree to see if there was life anywhere near. The sight of an endless bare landscape made him dizzy, and he fell to the ground and lost consciousness for a minute.
Partially buried bones--bird, dog and human remains--littered the trail. “That fucking guy, he screwed us. He left us out here to die.” “No, come on, let’s keep walking. He said to just keep walking straight and they would come pick us up.”
The sun was standing right over them, at his most despotic. The Honduran started to cry, a dry sob.
In the distance, they saw a dust cloud. A wind storm? It got closer and closer. Choco shaded his eyes and squinted. Leading the storm was a white SUV.
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