They slide open the door and we climb out one by one, seven girls, blinking and stretching after the long ride. Despite the brilliant sunshine, it is chilly here, far cooler than I expected. Anja slips her hand into mine, and she is shivering.

“This way,” the driver orders, and he leads us off the dirt road, onto a trail that takes us up into the hills. We climb past boulders and thorny bushes that claw at our legs. Anja wears open-toed shoes and she has to pause often, to shake out the sharp stones. We are all thirsty, but the men allow us to stop only once to drink water. Then we keep moving, scrambling up the gravelly path like ungainly goats. We reach the crest and start sliding downward, toward a clump of trees. Only when we reach the bottom do we see there is a dry riverbed. Scattered on the bank are the discards of those who have crossed before us: plastic water bottles and a soiled diaper and an old shoe, the vinyl cracked from the sunlight. A remnant of blue tarp flutters from a branch. This way have so many dreamers come, and we are seven more, following in their footsteps to America. Suddenly my fears evaporate, because here, in this debris, is the evidence we are close.

The men wave us forward, and we start climbing up the opposite bank.

Anja tugs on my hand. “Mila, I can’t walk anymore,” she whispers.

“You have to.”

“But my foot is bleeding.”

I look down at her bruised toes, at the blood oozing from tender skin, and I call out to the men: “My friend has cut her foot!”

The driver says, “I don’t care. Keep walking.”

“We can’t go on. She needs a bandage.”

“Either you keep walking or we’ll just leave you two behind.”

“At least give her time to change her shoes!”

The man turns. In that instant, he has transformed. The look on his face makes Anja shrink backward. The other girls stand frozen and wide-eyed, like scared sheep huddling together as he stalks toward me.