For four days we drive, stopping only once in the morning and once in the afternoon to eat bread and cold lentils and to drink water. Then the stew runs out and we have only hard bread. At night we sleep under tattered plastic sheets, Almaz between her parents and me next to Mesfin. We dig a shallow pit in the sand and place the sheets on top, weighed down around the edges with another layer of sand. There are six or seven other people sharing our pit each evening. I can start to see my ribs again. As the road changes from gritty track to no road at all, we move more slowly, often sliding through soft sand, steering toward some point that only the driver magically knows. Sometimes I see a plume of dust in the distance. Maybe another truck bumping across the desert to the border.
Our ears become so accustomed to the rumble of the engine that there is a constant ringing noise in them when we stop. While we drive, Almaz and I get used to speaking loudly and lip-reading to understand. Almaz stares at me intently to make sure she doesn’t miss anything I am saying. She always pauses before answering, careful not to waste words. It’s exhausting to talk for long. We mostly discuss where we want to live in England.
“A big city,” says Almaz. “A big city will have good movie theaters and music. My mother knows some people in London.”
“I don’t know much about England,” I confess. “My uncle has a friend in London, too. My mother knows somebody in the north. I don’t know where. I think it’s cold in the north, though.”
“I heard it’s cold everywhere,” she says. “It’s like rainy season all the time.”
“But there must be a dry season, too.”
I think about Mom and Lemlem back at home. Who will I live with, without my family? It might take Mom a lot longer than six months to be able to leave now that the military is watching her. I want to stay with Almaz, Shewit, and Mesfin. Perhaps they won’t want me with them once we arrive in England. They will be busy looking for jobs and looking for a school for Almaz. I would be one extra person to think about.
The truck labors through a ridge of soft sand. As it nears the top, we slow despite the whining revs of the engine. Diesel fumes drift over the trailer and we slide to a stop. I hear the driver’s door open and he jumps down into the sand, shouting up to the men with guns.
One of the smugglers near the footboard shouts back angrily. “Everyone off!” he orders.
Our legs are stiff from lack of use. Slowly we climb down onto the footboard, then jump into the hot sand. Almaz and I wade toward her parents, who are waiting in the desert, several yards from the truck.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Almaz asks.
“A little thirsty,” she answers, “but at least we had a place to sit.” Shewit unwinds the scarf from her head. “Come.” She points to the sand, intending to shade us all with her scarf.
Before I can join them, one of the smugglers points at me and shouts, “You!”
On the sand in front of him lies a pile of shovels. He chooses nine or ten other men and directs us each to a wheel. A different smuggler orders us to collect some worn wooden planks from the floor of the trailer.
Without the breeze we enjoyed while driving, the pounding sun from above and the heat rising from the sand below start to seep through my skin, claiming me piece by piece for the parched desert. I blink the sweat from my eyes and try to breathe steadily.
For an hour we dig away sand and place planks in front of the wheels, until the truck has inched to the top of the dune. The driver gets out to look for the firmest route down.
My head is swimming and the blood thumps in my temples.
“We need water,” one of the other men says in English.
One of the smugglers slings his rifle over his shoulder and unties a yellow water container from the side of the truck. He pours a small plastic cupful for each of the men who helped dig out the truck. Then half a cup for the passengers strewn around the truck. They scramble to their feet and form an anxious line, but no one pushes. They let the family with the young boy move to the front.
The truck engine revs again and slides down the dune toward firmer sand. People walk slowly after it. Shewit grabs my hands and looks at them, tutting and shaking her head when she sees the raw blisters, which sting from my salty sweat. At least the sweat might stop them from getting infected. There is no spare water to wash away the dirt.
Almaz and I climb back into the truck. I hold out my hand to Shewit and Mesfin, then take up my spot in the middle.
“Thank you for digging us out,” says Almaz while we can still hear each other.
With barely enough energy to keep myself upright, I smile back.
The truck sets off, creating a wonderful warm wind, and we rumble on toward the glow of the setting sun on the horizon.