Published: 2025-11-10

The back of the truck was dark and crowded. The driver’s instructions had been clear: do not talk, do not move, and do not breathe unless it’s absolutely necessary. I traveled alone and was fortunate enough to reclaim a corner for myself; pinned in between a stack of boxes, there was no one to talk to, and no place to move. Complying with the first two rules was easy; the problem was holding my breath. I knew he was serious when he said those who died would be thrown in the desert.

In the darkness, with only the sound of cardboard boxes rustling against the metal floor, the despair of the other men was palpable.

We had been on the road for 30 minutes or so when the truck stopped; something was wrong. The 200-kilometer trip was supposed to take over two hours.

The doors opened, and the once pitch-black back of the truck was illuminated by the moonlight. I closed my eyes tightly and groaned in pain; others covered their faces with both hands.

“Out! I got the heads up that there’s an improvised military control 10 kilometers from here. This is as far as I can take you.” The driver said.

The men started complaining. We had made it only a quarter of the way, and now he told us we were on our own.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Said one of the men, “We cannot go back; they’ll know we left the city.”

“You can make it to Hunger Killer on foot. Go across the mountains, it’s half the distance than going by car.” The driver said.

“You want us to walk, what, 75 kilometers across the mountains? Are you insane?”

The men’s complaints became louder; things were getting tense. The driver walked to the driver’s seat and got a shotgun from under the seat.

“I told you this is as far as I go,” he said while pointing the shotgun at the men, “if we continue ahead, we all get arrested and nobody gets what they want. Now you can either wait until I make the delivery tomorrow to take you back to the city, or you can go on foot from here.”

The men had calmed down, as one usually does after being pointed at with a lethal weapon. I got off the truck and asked:

“What way to the mountains?”

“All the way north.” The driver said while pointing, “If you don’t stray, you should reach Hunger Killer in six or seven hours.”

I started walking. If I wanted to cross the mountains without water or food, the best bet was to do it during the night, when I could save the most energy.

I heard shouting behind me, apparently some men were still not pleased; I also heard steps, some other men had decided to make the same pilgrimage as I.

We happened to go in the same direction, but we weren’t traveling together. This journey was one we were ashamed to share; the less we knew about each other, the better.

There was one man, however, who didn’t understand this maxim: Óscar Herrera. I knew his name because he approached me with the line:

“Hello, I’m Óscar Herrera. Nice to meet you!”

I ignored him. Turning my head in his direction would have meant spending extra energy, which I couldn’t afford. I was already putting a strain on my mind by filling it with unnecessary thoughts.

For whatever reason, he clung to me like a child clings to his mother’s skirt. Talking about this and that, asking questions I was not willing to answer, ruining my solitary trip. Not that he wasn’t allowed to walk next to me; he was a free man, same as I. I couldn’t do anything about it.

His ramblings sounded like a distant conversation to me; I had zoned out. There’s one thing I distinctly heard:

“When we get to Hunger Killer, what are you getting—”

I raised my hand in front of his face and stopped walking; he stopped behind me.

“I don’t talk about that stuff.” I said.

“So, you do talk! I already knew it, since I heard you talking back when the driver asked us to walk through the mountains, and—”

“Look, man. This is a hard and long road to traverse. I don’t have water or food, I have to conserve energy. Now, if you were to be so kind as to be quiet, maybe I could make it to the other side without fainting. OK?”

Óscar didn’t respond to my long rambling. Instead, he reached into his backpack and grabbed a bottle of water. He brandished it in my face without saying a word. I didn’t want to be indebted to anyone, especially not him, but I was thirsty. I grabbed the bottle and took a long gulp.

“Thank you, you are very generous.” I said.

He nodded, saying nothing in response. I let a sigh out.

“I give up. You can talk to your heart’s content. Just remember, we are hours away from our destination, and we must conserve our strength.”

I don’t know if it was because of his constant questions, his bad jokes, or merely the fact that I felt accompanied by him, but the rest of the way felt easier to traverse.

We arrived at Hunger Killer after dawn, it may have been seven, maybe eight in the morning. Out of the thick woods, the sun rays on the asphalt revealed Óscar had a prosthetic leg. I felt terrible. I had been dragging the poor man, assuming he could keep up with my pace. He realized I was looking at his leg.

“Don’t give me that look of pity. We all have our problems. After all, we all made this trip.”

I nodded. A new sense of respect had grown in me since the first time the two of us spoke hours ago.

“I guess we should go our separate ways now. I don’t want to invade your privacy.” Óscar said.

“You know what, it’s OK. We can go to the same place.”

We entered the same building, as equals, as friends. I took out my plastic yellow container from my pocket, he took a similar one from his backpack.

“I want this drug, please. It’s for anxiety.” I said, sliding a piece of paper over the counter.

Óscar took a look at the note and smiled.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.” He said.

THE END.