Louisa was back with me the next morning. Unable to keep a secret from her she was the one who insisted on driving. She was darting her eyes all around. It wasn't the first threat. For any of us. The job was dangerous. But we watched each other's backs. I looked out the window looking for tracks or foot prints. If an immigrant had managed to cross or get out then we would track them at least to a general area.

Our goal was to not let them get out of Nuevo Laredo. If they did they risked the nastiest part of Texas ranch land that they would have to trek through. Dehydration was then the most common killer. Rattle snakes, scorpions, and desert heat. Several would likely try to escape with the coyotes; smugglers--is what we commonly refer to them as. However, they would likely try and get to Highway 83 to be picked up.

Those who traveled with the coyotes ran heavy risks. Being beaten, left alone to fend for themselves and just abandoned. Women ran the risk of getting raped and abused. Not mention the price was hefty. From what law enforcement knows so far at least $2000 per adult on average.

"I will never understand these people", said Louisa.

I looked over my cheek leaned against my hand as I was watching the scenery go by, "Things aren't good over there", I said.

"Not much better over here if they keep coming. Their problems aren't going to be solved by just coming over here. It takes work. My family did it the right way", said Louisa clearly annoyed about something.

"Louisa, I'm fine", I said knowing this was about the threat.

"No, no this isn't something that is easy to slide off chica! It's dangerous! We don't even know if that was just a man angry, or a man part of the Zetas!", she said wagging her finger.

I sighed not saying anything. She was right. We didn't know.

I looked over and tapped her shoulder.

"Qué?", she asked. (What?)

I pointed to something struggling in the water. I got out with Louisa who hurried over. We found a young large round boy holding a small child in one arm. He reached out with the other to try and pull himself up but he had no success. The dirt was too wet and he couldn't get a hold of anything.

When he saw us come he jolted backing away frightened and held the little girl. But he had been caught. Too tired to swim back. It was too risky. Louisa went up to him extending her hand standing on the edge.

"Dame tú mano", she ordered. (Give me your hand)

The boy hesitated for a moment but he knew he couldn't stay in the water. He was tired and his energy spent. He took Louisa's waiting hand and she helped him up.

I took out my clip board as Louisa asked the required questions handing him water squatting down.

"Me llamo Hector. Mi hermana menor se llama Bethany", he answered sniffing. His eyes were watering and he reverted to English.

"I thought I made it this time.......but....I guess not", he said quietly.

It seems he had tried once or twice before.

"Where are you from?", I asked.

"Honduras", he replied.

I nodded writing it down. Honduras, he had been on a long journey. To have made it to the border. To step on American soil....only to be caught and turned in. There wasn't really anything you could say in response to that. What could you? Most came because they were searching for family who had left them behind to provide for a better future. Wether it's in search for their mothers, fathers, or uncles.

Louisa didn't say anything. Because not everyone who came over was necessarily the bad guy. Some sought a better life.