One day, as they moved to yet another farm, the bus pulled into a rest stop, a large white block of restrooms squatting on the brown Colorado prairie.
The men filed out one by one to each take their turn. Dani was last that day, having paused to put his shoes back on after a nap. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone at the rest stops they’d visit. He’d learned that lesson through several bruised ribs his third week in Colorado.
But as he exited the bus this day, he bumped into an older man.
“Disculpe,” the man, who looked Hispanic, said kindly to Dani.
Dani kept his eyes on his shoes, which had a considerable hole in them, and started to move forward. Shame burned in his chest to be seen by this tidy older man. Dani knew his clothes were torn and dirty, and he could feel the eyes of the agent on his back.
“¿Qué tal, muchacho?” the man asked.
Without looking up or replying, Dani shuffled toward the restroom.