When Paco arrives at the waterfront for his shift, his supervisor tells him to expect an uneventful evening. He and his co-workers are enduring the cold January wind, talking about “women, football, strategies to win the lottery, politics, religion, and back to women again,” when Paco sees nine spectral figures running towards him. Barefoot, “young, skinny yet strong, sinewy,” they stink of diesel and salt water, and are “soaked to the bone, with their arms and legs covered in welts that looked like whip marks.”
The men are migrants from the Dominican Republic. They had bribed the crew of a lumber vessel to let them hide in the hold until the ship reached Florida. They had been told that Miami was the fourth stop, but the ship made an additional layover, and they got out too early. “Please, tell us we’re in Miami,” a Dominican begged Paco, who laughed nervously. “Miami? You’re kidding. You’re in Veracruz!”
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