It was hot in this box. Muy caliente.

The semi-trailer full quiet, nervous Mexicans occasionally murmured to one another. In the darkness, they could feel the steady hum of the wheels rolling underneath them. They could feel the occasional highway lane shift as their bodies swayed.

Juan carefully crawled across the floor feeling around blindly. Eventually he was able to grab hold of a plastic water bottle. He had been trying not to drink too much water; there were women and children here, and they needed the water it more than he did.

He had been in this car for nearly a day and a half. The terrible stench of their communal bucket hung in the air as a reminder of the sacrifices they were making to come to America.

America, the land of opportunity? Perhaps. That’s what the American man had told him after his last match in Tijuana. The American sold Juan on the chance to establish himself in a place they called Memphis. A place that one day Juan’s family could follow and join him in.

The trailer jolted as the semi driver shifted down gears.

When Juan finished crawling back to his spot, he handed the water bottle over to an elderly woman. Isabella was her name, and she was joining her grandson in a place called Pueblo, Colorado. When they reached San Antonio and she took her next transport, he would never see her again.

“Gracias,” she said, acknowledging Juan’s kindness. Juan had been caring after her during this trip like he did his own abuela, Maria.

Another jolt from another down shift in gears.

The semi was definitely leaving the highway, Juan decided. The way his body was leaning told him that the deceleration was considerable, and they finally came to a full stop. It began going forward again and turning to the left. They must be in San Antonio now, he thought.

After a little bit longer, the semi came to another complete stop and Juan heard the engine shut off. He hoped they had finally reached their destination, but there was no way of knowing. They could be stopping for gas.

At the rear of the trailer Juan heard talking, and then the relieving clanks of the trailer door being opened. Juan had yearned for sunlight, but as the door opened, he could tell it was nighttime. It made sense, considering the clandestine nature of his transport.

One-by-one, the illegal immigrants carefully exited the trailer, relieved at being able to smell fresh air. Juan went in front of Isabella and held her hand she followed him off the back of the semi. All around were more vehicles waiting to take groups off in different directions.

Juan gave Isabella a hug and a soft kiss on the cheek, making her blush.

After a scan of the area, Juan saw the American man waiting by polished, beautiful looking car. It was nighttime, but the American man wore sunglasses. How odd, thought Juan.

As Juan approached, the American smiled and shook Juan’s hand.

“Bienvenida a America,” said the American man, fumbling the proper inflection of the Spanish language. The American had used the feminine version of ‘welcome’ and probably didn’t even know it.

“Si,” Juan replied.

“Entra en el coche, amigo,” continued the American man, gesturing to his vehicle. “Agua y comida. Te llevaré el resto del camino a Menfis.”

Juan nodded in thanks and opened the door.

Before getting in, he looked back and saw Isabella climbing into a van. He wished her well and hoped she reached her grandson safely.