Piedras Negras, Coahuila, Mexico
FOURTEEN MEN WERE SLUMPED ON MATTRESSES and chairs, smoking inside the warehouse, watching over the migrants. One of the men had a pistol tucked into his waistband; another had a pistol resting on his lap. The men were fussing with their phones, ribbing each other, killing the morning. A slight waft of marijuana smoke lingered in the air. Someone hocked noisily, spat.
Arnovis, a thin, strong, hard-gazing 24-year-old Salvadoran man, nonchalantly grabbed his black knockoff Puma backpack—the one his mother had bought for him back in Jiquilisco—wove through the maze of sitting and slumped bodies, and walked out onto the patio.
Hey, vato, where you going? one of the men called. Just to shower, Arnovis said. That OK?
And your backpack?
My clothes.
The shower was…
