Originally, there had been twenty others in the truck. Twenty sweating bodies piled together like the heaving ribs of a panting animal. Estella knew none of them, but they were men from small towns like hers, all following different strands of America’s labour trails. From snatches of overheard conversation, she knew some were heading to Florida to pick oranges, others to construction jobs in Colorado and still more making for states further to the north, ones she hadn’t even heard of. None had been thrilled about her joining the party at the eleventh hour, least of all the smallish campesino with tightly curled hair and insubstantial moustache who had been ordered to make room for her. By the time a large rock broke the axle of the truck’s back wheel, the group had reached northern Arizona, their arrival on American soil justifying half the $500 they had each paid their coyote for the privilege, but they were still eight miles away from the safe house – and a good coyote might have got them there. A good guide might have led them single file, a shepherd guiding his sheep across the soft sand of the drags, perhaps using a broken-off branch to sweep clean the patterns of their shoes and boots. A good guide might have done everything in his power to keep them clear of the ever watchful eyes of the Border Patrol. But then this coyote was no good guide and hey, eight miles was nothing for a bunch of such young, fit men, he reassured them before scuttling sideways into the shimmering scrub of the desert. The safe house was indeed north-east and, true, it was only eight miles, but these were crow miles. The Mexicans could not fly and swoop over the dips and rises of steep canyons. Instead they were forced to pick their way round their perimeters in ill-fitting shoes that soon blistered their feet, hauling backpacks and suitcases that rubbed the skin off their shoulders and hands. Degree by degree they lost their sense of direction and before long the eight miles turned to ten, and those ten soon to fifteen.

As the heat of the day grew stronger the group grew weaker. Nobody was carrying enough water for a journey on foot. Nobody could have carried the amount required. Dissent broke out amongst the leaders – which direction to go, from which direction they’d come, which way really was north. At 30 per cent dehydration, simple decision-making becomes a murky business at best; 50 per cent dehydration is more like the final stage of drunkenness, the one where you have to concentrate really hard to decide whether jumping out of a tenth-storey window is a good idea or not.