When we stop, blind bodies collapse in a mound of sick, sweat and BO. I scramble to breathe. Someone kicks me. Yusef clings to my neck crying, heavy as a sandbag.
The tanker lid opens, and our first light for days slumps upon us, the lost praying to the heavens. We hear, “Everybody out!” and urge our tired forms through the opening, like laundry through a wringer.
When I emerge I see rows of tents soaked by vast lights in a tall wire compound.
Yusef smiles at me. “We’re here, Papa.”
“We are, son,” I reply. “Wherever here is.”