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Dream
They’re going to find me.
And then I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison.
I turn the dial down on the radio as it begins to crackle and lose signal. Bluetooth doesn’t work in this old car, and the radio has gone from playing pop, to oldies, to static. It should be picking up some Mexican stations soon, but in the meantime, it’s just me and my anxious thoughts.
When I was younger, I used to dream about taking a long car trip through the United States, stopping at old diners in the desert and winding my way up and around snowcapped mountains. It sounded like the best thing a girl could do in her early twenties, before she got bogged down by the oppressive responsibilities that all but the richest (and often, poorest) adults seem to have.
I had a map in my college dormitory, and I swore the second I got out I was going to take the longest trip I could.
But first I had to find a job.
And then I had to save up money faster than gas prices skyrocketed.
And once I had the money, my cousin Eddy got kidnapped by the Cartel.
So now, I’m taking that money and using it to get this bucket of bolts across the border with ten kilograms of a newly synthesized stimulant in the trunk.
It’s not my idea of a fun road trip, but I’m not going to let a bunch of thugs kill Eddy. I don’t care what he got wrapped up in. He’s a good guy, and he doesn’t deserve any of this.
Well, neither do I, but that’s why I’m going to make this quick.
The road in front of me stretches out so far that it disappears on the horizon, and to either side of me there’s nothing but dry earth and the occasional desert shrub. It’s not much of a view, but that’s a good thing. Nobody else is out here, and that means I have a chance of getting across the border unnoticed.
Diego, my Cartel contact, assured me that getting into Mexico wasn’t a problem. On the way out, however, there’s a fifty-fifty chance of my car being torn apart by Border Patrol agents, but by that time, I’ll be clean as a whistle.
No drugs here. Search all you like!
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t trust a member of the Cartel with the change in my pocket, but these aren’t pennies we’re talking about.
These are drugs, and the Cartel wants them badly enough to kidnap Eddy. They’re not going to let me get thrown in jail and risk losing their prize.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
In truth, I don’t know what’s waiting for me as I approach the Mexican border on this lonely stretch of cracked asphalt. I could be driving straight into a week-long interrogation in a room without windows.
And with this amount of drugs, they probably wouldn’t care that I’m a U.S. citizen. I’m sure they’d go Guantanamo Bay on my ass in a heartbeat.
I wring the steering wheel with my sweaty hands and try to focus on something else,anythingelse, to take my mind off the grim reality of what I’m doing.
I turn the radio back on, and I’m met with an upbeat song in Spanish.
I must be close.
Sweat drips down my temple and I try to wipe it away, but my hands are too sweaty to do anything. I’m so hot now that I’m pretty sure I could wring half a gallon of sweat out of my t-shirt.
Driving through Texas without air conditioning was a mistake, but not bringing water was even stupider. I was too scared to stop at the gas station and pick anything up after I left Eddy’s old apartment with the drugs. The adrenaline rush of leaving a felony’s worth of stimulants unattended in the parking lot would’ve killed me.
But dying of dehydration will be much worse.
I consider turning around. I passed a gas station about thirty miles back, and I don’t have to be in Dimalona until Thursday.
No, I’m not risking another run through town. That place was crawling with Border Patrol agents, and I’m sure if they witnessed me driving back and forth at the Mexican border, they’d pull me over and search the car.
Hello, life in prison.
