The future paid a shivery visit to the back of the car. I woke, half opened my left eye. A yellow desert. Morning. I let the eyelid fall. Blackness. But not the blackness of negation. Nothing so fortunate. Merely the absence of light. Too hot to sleep. Too uncomfortable, too much background noise: radio in the front cab, annoying chitchat, stones churning against the bottom of the vehicle like lotto balls.

I felt weak, my bones ached, my jeans and sneakers were drenched with sweat.

The Land Rover rattled over a bump on the coyote road, the engine grumbling like an old horse.

No, no point trying to sleep now. I removed the cheap plastic sunglasses, wiped the perspiration from my forehead, rubbed at the dirt on the rear window.

Vapor trails. Red sun. Hot air seething over the vast expanse of the Sonora. No cacti, no shrubs. Not even a big rock.

Where were we? Was this a double cross? Easiest thing in the world, drive half a dozen desperate wetbacks to the middle of nowhere, kill ’em, rob ’em. Happens all the time.

I turned to look at Pedro, our driver. He caught my eye in the rearview, nodded, and gave me a tombstone grin. I nodded back.

“Yes, we’re across,” he said.

We crunched into a pothole. Pedro grabbed the wheel and cursed under his breath.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” someone said.

“What road?” Pedro replied.

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

“We’re across the border? We’re in the United States?” I asked.

“For the last kilometer,” Pedro confirmed. Both of us waited for any kind of emotion from the others. Nothing. No one applauded, cheered, reacted in any way.

Most of them had probably done this journey dozens of times. Pedro, however, was disappointed. “We made it,” he said again.