Diego Galvez

The shelter smells of sweat, damp concrete, and faintly of beans simmering somewhere out back. It's not a bad smell, just a tired one. It matches the faces of everyone here, including mine. I’ve been here three nights now, though I couldn’t say how many more I’ll get. Shelters like this don’t guarantee permanence, only a chance to breathe.

The pastor who runs it, Emmanuel, is a wiry man with deep lines etched across his face. He hasn’t told me his story, but the other men whispered it to me: how he was kidnapped by a cartel last year and came back alive when others didn’t. I owe him my life, though I’ve barely exchanged more than a “gracias” with him. Without him, I wouldn’t have a cot, a meal, or even the chance to think about what comes next.

I’m 26. Back in San Luis Potosí, that would mean something—responsibility, a future, maybe even a family. But now it’s just a number that ticks away, another day to survive. The first night I got here, I tried to sleep off the cold that clung to my bones from the river crossing. But sleep doesn’t come easy when every shadow reminds you of what you’ve run from. Or what might find you again.

I tried crossing into Laredo, USA, two weeks ago. A coyote promised he’d get us through; instead, we ended up sprinting from men with guns. I don’t know if they were border agents or something worse, but either way, I lost everything: the money I’d saved cleaning hotel rooms, the photos of my little brother, even the shoes off my feet. I made it back here barefoot, bruised, and lucky. Others didn’t.

Mexico isn’t a refuge, not really. This country is as much a trap as the one I left. Since 2006, the streets have been ruled by ghosts with guns, and people like me—poor, young, disposable—are easy prey. Migrants like us are cattle to the cartels. We feed their business: bodies for ransom, trafficking, or worse. Even if you’re Mexican, you’re not safe.

Emmanuel told us this morning: "We’re all walking miracles.” He was handing out bread when he said it, his voice calm, his hands steady. Maybe he’s right. But miracles feel fragile here. Every step forward feels like one closer to being erased.

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Elina Karlsson

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Yanzhou Liang