Lupe tucks her long, black braid into the hood of her sweater. There isn't much space inside, and her range of movement is limited: she can move her arms up and over her face and head, and cross and uncross her ankles. She's in a fetal position in the hood of an old Chevy, on her way to the other side.

They had met the coyote at two in the morning and the sweater had seemed a good choice then. She and the five others in her group were driven to a junkyard a couple miles from the border. There they were assigned to different drivers. Some were going to cross using fake papers. Others would be hiding in secret compartments in a car or truck. They didn't know how they would be crossing over until that morning. Lupe prayed she would get a hiding place. She had heard from her husband, who was already in California, that was her best chance of crossing. The border agents were getting good at spotting fakes.

The inside of the hood is no longer pitch black, a sign that morning has arrived. The border gates open at six and Lupe doesn't know how long she's been here, but she knows it's been at least a few hours. It is still cool, and she shivers. She pulls the hood of her sweater over her head and burrows her face in it. She breathes in the familiar scent of jabon Zote. Her body aches for home.

She smacks her lips and swallows her saliva. They were told not to drink or eat anything starting the night before. But Lupe was afraid of dehydration, so she drank 2 liters of water and made herself pee every hour even if she didn't need to. She is wearing an adult diaper in case that hasn't been enough. She had once heard of a woman who ended up with a ruptured bladder from not wanting to relieve herself. By the time they arrived and dumped her at the entrance of a hospital, it was too late.

No, Lupe had prepared. At least as much as one can prepare to make a trip over the border hidden in the hood of a truck.

They move at a snail's pace, a few feet every couple minutes. Lupe is surprised how quiet it is. She thought it would be loud, the engine screaming into her ear the entire time. Maybe because they don't move much, but it's more of a gentle humming with a loud buzz every now and then. If she wasn't so scared, she probably would have fallen asleep. She's been awake for almost 24 hours now.

The hours drag on, the engine getting hotter from idling. Lupe feels sweat break on her forehead and the back of her neck. The temperature outside isn't more than 72 degrees, but inside it's much hotter. They had picked November to attempt the cross; there were too many horror stories about those who tried it during the summer, only to end up in an eight-hour line, cooking from the inside out.

Lupe inhales and releases her breath slowly. She focuses on the noise coming from the outside: cars, emergency vehicles, street vendors. The sounds fade in and out as they pass by, oblivious to the woman under the hood of the red Chevy.

Finally, the truck lurches forward and comes to a sudden stop. Lupe makes out a gruff 'buenos dias', in heavily accented Spanish. She catches her breath, realizing they have arrived at the checkpoint. Heavy footsteps approach, move away, and then come back. Lupe begins to shake, and tears fall down her face, the salt stinging her chapped lips.

The footsteps and their voice are now directly above her. She bites down on the neck of her sweater, an attempt to stifle the sobs that try to escape. They are now barking unintelligible orders at someone and there is an animated exchange. After a few minutes, they move away. Lupe tilts her head up, straining to hear what is going on outside. She doesn't hear the voice or boots anymore. Lupe curls up even tighter, trying to make herself smaller in case they find her. Maybe they won't see her.

Suddenly the truck moves again, slowly, and soon after begins to pick up speed. The engine roars louder the faster they move. Lupe is still shaking. She squeezes her eyes shut, as if opening them would put her at the back of the line again.

Sometime later, maybe a couple hours, the truck slows as they exit the freeway. Lupe feels carsick for the first time from the sudden starts and stops on the city streets.

Eventually the truck rolls to a stop. She hears shouting outside and her stomach sinks. What if they were followed? What if it's the police?

The hood opens and Lupe peers up, blinded by the bright, autumn California sun.

‘Ya llegamos, señorita Lupe'. She made it. She made it to the other side.