The pedestrian bridge begins where the ramp ends. In the two years I’ve been doing this commute, I’ve heard some people say it makes them feel claustrophobic, and it’s not hard to understand why: It’s an iron and glass enclosure that seems to go on for miles. I walk quickly, twisting and turning with the bridge, until I see people slowing down ahead, where the line begins. It isn’t too bad today. Judging by where I’m standing, I’d say it’ll be about an hour, an hour and fifteen minutes at most.

While I move slowly with the line, watching the sun rising through the metal grating walls of the bridge, I can’t help but think about my brothers. A part of me suspects Luis is still asleep. Lately, his schedule seems to be the exact opposite of mine: He goes to bed late and sleeps in, but Diego might be getting up soon. He might open his eyes and begin his day without fully understanding that this will be the last normal Friday we’ll get to have in a long time.

“Sol!”

I turn around to find a familiar face staring at me. Bruno Rodríguez is one of the kids at Orangeville High who also commutes from Tijuana every day. He’s a year older than me, so I never really hang out with him at school, but he always joins me whenever he spots me on the bridge.

“What’s up?” he asks as he comes to stand next to me. There are at least ten people who have lined up behind me since I got here, but no one protests. Joining friends in line is considered fair game.

“Not much,” I reply. “Just tired.”

Bruno nods once, as if to point out the obvious—that he’s tired, too. He has jet-black hair, which he rarely ever combs, and round features that make him look like an overgrown child—round eyes, round chin, round nose. Most importantly, though, he has a way of reading me that nobody else does. When I’m not in the mood to talk, he stands quietly beside me, keeping me company while we move slowly with the line. Other days, when I’m feeling more lively, he keeps us both entertained by telling me stories—about his dog, a rescue bulldog who’s the laziest being on the planet; about his younger sister, who’s a year away from starting high school; and about his obsession with a Santa Monica–based rock band. He usually does most of the talking while I just listen, but I’ve also shared a few stories with him over the years—about my family’s restaurant, which has been around longer than any of us can remember, about my younger brother, whom I worry about every second of my life, and about what things used to be like before Mami died.