We were camped near an all-night cafe on the outskirts of town. My mother and uncle have spent the last month bartering for our passage. My father is still back home. He says he will join us later. Mother is always sad, but I tell her not to be.
Some of the others say, ‘What’s the worst that can happen? They’ll only send us back. We’ll just try again!’
But they know it can be worse, we all do. Some of the drivers take the money and don’t spare a thought for the cargo. No air, no consideration. They play deaf until safely beyond customs at the other side. Perhaps that way they can convince themselves they really do have nothing but boxes of tomatoes or cherries at their back.
Mother looks tense: she says we are going tonight. There isn’t time to take anything. Not that we brought much with us from home. It’s a long truck, but it better be. There are 30 others waiting when we arrive at the pick-up spot in the early morning light. I’m worried – perhaps we should wait and try another day.
Before I can think any more, my mother’s hand leads me into the dark. The door slams shut behind us.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.