THERE WAS A MOTOR POOL AHEAD AND SEVERAL MILITARY-TYPE vehicles, one with a heavy machine gun mounted to its back, but Jonah didn’t see any soldiers. The traffic crawled, tires sighing against wet pavement. There was no other pedestrian traffic. A man in uniform appeared and motioned him inside the guardroom.
There were two other men inside. A ceiling fan spun at full tilt, the fluorescent light behind the blades lurid and flashing. The smell of burned coffee and cigarette smoke. Jonah was freezing in his soaked clothes. The guards spoke Spanish among themselves and glanced at Jonah, and one spoke in English.
“You are running from police.”
“No,” Jonah said, feeling it come out too quick, too high.
“Then why you cross now, hmm?”
“I’m going to see a sick friend,” Jonah said. He didn’t know where the lie came from. His heart thumped, and he half worried the men would hear it. “It’s an emergency.”
The guard frowned. “Your friend lives in Nuevo Laredo?”
“Yes,” Jonah lied, again. He was intimidated and he felt like that was the answer the guard had wanted. He hoped the man wouldn’t press him further.
The guard asked for Jonah’s passport. Jonah looked young in the photo, fourteen or fifteen. He was worried it would pose a problem. His initial passport had been part of a ploy by Pop in order to get little Jonah to be okay with Bill going overseas. We can visit, Pop told him. It was all bullshit, of course. But his father had been sweet when he’d wanted to be.
The guard handed the passport back and asked to see Jonah’s bag. He opened it and removed some scrunched, dirty shirts to peer deeper into the backpack.
“Okay.” The guard flashed a number with his hands: “You stay in Nuevo Laredo for only this many days, three, then you go home. You understand?”
“Yes.” Jonah repacked his bag under their eyes, pressure rising as he fumbled with his things. When he walked out of the guardroom the feeling in his chest eased, and he entered Mexico.