The appointed night had arrived. Tied about Mama and Papa’s waists were pouches filled with as few belongings as they dared to take. Mama had planned all day, choosing this, discarding that, filling their pouches with some dollars they had exchanged for their pesos, some beef jerky, a bar of soap, a comb, a small brush, an old watch.

This was going to be a dangerous journey for the Rodriguez family. Mama and Papa instructed their children once more, as they had for the past two evenings, that on this trip they needed to stay close together and be very, very quiet. Noise of any kind could draw attention and put them in peril. Their friend, Señor Chavez, agreed to take them to the pick-up point in the back of his horse-drawn wagon.

The location was the old abandoned Ruelas ranch. It was once a working venture, until Pancho Villa’s men had plundered it during the Mexican Revolution several years before.  Now, it was nothing more than outbuildings with jagged, broken windows and sagging roofs where lonely tumbleweeds collected. That is where they would begin their journey.

Mama heard the horses’ hooves and wagon wheels crunch the dry ground outside and knew Señor Chavez had pulled up. Her back stiffened, and she drew in a quick breath. There was no turning back now.

“Juan, niños. I hear Señor Chavez outside. It’s time to go. Vamanos.”

“Hola, Señor,” Juan called out to his friend from the doorway, as the children somberly came out of the house. Señor Chavez waved back and motioned for the children to get in the back of the wagon.

They reluctantly climbed in, fearful of what lay ahead, sad to be leaving the only life they knew. Mama and Papa had shared with them over the last week how this would be an adventure, a new start for all of them. Mama and Papa had asked their niños to trust them.

Mama took one last look at their home and blew out all the candles lighting the living room. She stood for a moment in the doorway, looking back into the dark house. “Good-bye my friend,” she said. “You’ve been very good to us.”  She closed the door quickly and walked away, choking back tears. Drawing a deep breath, she held her head high and walked toward the wagon.

Papa had already helped the children into the wagon. They were quietly talking among themselves, the oldest daughter holding her sleepy little brother on her lap. Juan could see the pain in his wife’s eyes, but speaking of it would only make it worse. So, without a word, he lifted her into the back of the wagon.

“Remember, niños,” he said to the children, “you must be very quiet this whole trip. Comprendé?” They nodded. They understood to be quiet, but they didn’t all understand why they had to leave. The younger ones were confused and frightened, the older ones sad and nervous.

“And when we get off the wagon, you must stay together. You older ones need to watch for the young ones.” Then Papa pulled himself up on the front seat next to Señor Chavez, and they were off.

Mama watched over her children during the bumpy ride on the back roads. Looking into the dark night, she noticed it was a cloudless sky with just a sliver of crescent moon and a sprinkling of stars.  It seemed to her like a vast wall of sadness with a glimmer of hope. She was determined, no matter how she felt, to try to keep a smile on her face for her children’s sake, all the while her pushing down her own grief and anxiety.

After about half an hour, they reached the deserted ranch and found a family named Lopez already there, waiting in silence. The soft moonlight gave them barely enough illumination to find their way and see the silhouettes of the others standing there. The Rodriguez family climbed out of the wagon as quietly as they could and shuffled in the darkness over to where the others were standing. Papa whispered his thanks to Señor Chavez and shook his hand before he turned the wagon around and left.

In hushed tones, the two families exchanged greetings. Everyone nervously awaited the promised truck’s arrival, the vehicle that would take them on the next leg of their journey, one step closer to their freedom. They stood there waiting, in the faint moonlight, each likely trying to imagine what their new life in los Estados Unidos would be like. Juan wondered if there would be enough work to take care of their family, and Maria thought about what the living conditions would be like. The children were merely concerned with when they would eat next or if they would find friends.

Time seemed to pass slowly. The adults and older children were exchanging nervous looks, even commenting on their wishes for the truck to show up soon. The children were getting antsy, especially the little ones.

Soon, they could hear the faint roar of an engine in the distance. Then, the much-anticipated truck arrived.  It was an early-model black flatbed truck, about 7 or 8 years old, covered with the desert’s dirt and dust. It had well-worn wooden railings on each side with weathered canvas tied over it to hide its cargo.

The truck pulled in near the gathering of people, came to a squeaky stop, and the driver hopped out.

“Everyone, I’m José.  Let’s get loaded up quickly. We don’t have much time.”

José took an old, but sturdy, wooden box out of the front seat and walked around to the back of the truck. He set the box down, stepped up on it, and lifted up the canvas flap in the back. One at a time, climbing clumsily into the back, each person stepped on the box then up into the bed of the truck. The stronger helped the weaker, especially the children, until both families were on board. Then the driver picked up the wooden box and secured the tattered canvas flap down over the back. He stored the box on the front seat next to him, not allowing any of his passengers to sit up front with him in case anyone saw them.

For the most part, they all sat in silence in the back, some resting up for what was ahead, some too anxious to sleep. They sat in their cramped quarters for the next two hours until they reached their destination, near El Sasabe.

The Rodriguez’s had been told another truck would meet them at their drop-off point, and they found it was already there when they arrived. People were gingerly piling out of the back of it. As the Rodriguez and Lopez families climbed out of their vehicle, their driver, José, told them to huddle around him and listen up.  He kept his voice as low as possible, but was still loud enough to be heard.

“Go out into the desert. Each of you take a hiding place behind the plants and the larger rocks. Try to stay out of sight until you’re given the signal to run. When it’s time, I will let out a coyote howl. Then, all of you, just run for the fence as fast as you can.  Don’t look back – just run!”

At José’s prompting, the families quickly dispersed and found their hiding places, waiting for the coyote howl. Papa took the two younger boys and hid behind a big rock, holding little Emilio by the hand.  Mama and the two girls hid behind a clump of cactus.  The older son found his own bush near Papa to shield him.

The signal was given, a natural and commonplace sound for the desert. It was a loud, shrill howl of a wild animal that pierced the night air and carried out over the flat land. The race was on. They all ran with every ounce of energy they possessed, crossing the dark Mexican desert with only the light of the crescent moon to guide them. As their zapatos were clapping the dry desert floor, the pounding of their hearts was resonating in their ears. Diving in the dirt for the border fence, the hopeful clawed and crawled their way under it to freedom.

Papa didn’t think Mama and little Carmen were moving fast enough. Carmen’s little legs couldn’t keep up and stumbled a few times.  He worried that they might be left behind.  So, in a firm voice, not more than a whisper, he urged them on.  “Άndale! Άndale, muchachas! (Hurry! Hurry, girls!)”

Mama firmly grasped Carmen’s hand and held on for dear life, nearly dragging her to freedom as she helped her run.  Papa was frantically trying to help the rest of the children under the fence before diving under himself.  He made it to the other side, picked up five-year-old Emilio, and began running, pressing the older children to get moving.  “Run, niños, run!  Rápido, rápido!”

In desperation, Mama shoved Carmen under the fence ahead of her, yelling at her to run and not look back. Carmen scrambled to her feet and took off running in terror. Mama squeezed through and caught up with her. She grabbed hold of Carmen’s hand and helped her run like she had never run before.

They all reached the other side safely, their hearts pounding in their chests, barely able to catch their breath. They looked around the muffled chaos to try and find their family members amidst the clouds of dust. Fortunately, they had all gotten through without being detected.  There were no guards, no lights, and no dogs.  It was eerily silent.

Lifting the crucifix she wore around her neck, Mama pressed it to her lips and gave it a quick, gentle kiss. “Gracias a Diós. Gracias a Diós,” she whispered under her breath.