I didn’t want to be treated like a maid. But these ladies, they treat me like a person.

Miguel moved fast, but the boxes kept coming.

How many? Dos.

He pulled the tape across the box top, slapped on the sticker, and heaved it into the cart.

How many? Cuatro.

Pull, slap, heave.

How many? Tres.

Pull, slap, heave.

The sweat dripped down Miguel’s black curls, and he swiped an arm across his forehead. His cotton T-shirt was still a clean white, but it was getting damp.

Miguel was used to physical labor, the aching back and trembling biceps were all part of the job. It was a long day, seven in the morning until nine at night, and some nights until eleven. Miguel knew that the American land of dreams still meant you had to work to achieve them. And that the long hike across the blazing desert was for the opportunity to work, to be a man.

He was a man even at age 14, when Papa had passed out on the white sand of Arizona, somewhere in the middle of their 60-mile trek.

Miguel shook his head; he would not think about it now. He wouldn’t think about the agonizing stillness, the heat pressing down like a blanket and the slow supply of water drip, dripping out of his canteen. Or gazing into Papa’s sunken eyes and begging, with a swollen tongue, “Uno mas, Papa,” just one more step, one more sip. Begging, until Miguel himself could no longer continue and he passed out on the hot sand. He woke up in the dark and closed space of the back of a truck, crowded with men, but he was on his own.

That was the easier half of the trip — just dark spaces and close, stuffy air. And then finally, arriving at the land of hope and dreams, all alone. Miguel smiled to himself, if Alyssia ever heard him say that! “Tu como de la familia,” she’d announced when he first arrived at his cousin’s home. And he was part of the family, sleeping on a dusty mattress in the corner of the bedroom all six of them shared and contributing his share of his salary to the weekly grocery bill and trip to the Laundromat. Louis found him this job at the grocery store, and Miguel was happy to be working in a cool, air-conditioned store, shelving and boxing groceries, not like back home where he spent the day in the hot sun picking pitaya for pennies.

Miguel swallowed. His mouth was dry and his tongue papery. “Uno momento,” he said to Ben, handing the cashier the roll of packing tape.

Miguel hurried to the back room and took a long draught of his water bottle, filling and emptying it twice until he felt quenched. He squatted on the dusty cement floor, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang between his elbows. It was only 3 p.m., a few more hours to go. He breathed deeply, stood, and stretched. Every hour was another four dollars sent back home.

He was saving up for a phone so he could call Mama and speak to his brothers and sisters. He borrowed Alyssia’s phone once a week, but he wanted to be able to speak to his family on his own time; he wanted the comfort of that connection in his pocket, always. He had heard about a sale on prepaid cell phones and had taken the bus to the electronics superstore to purchase one, only to be told by the saleswoman that they were going on sale the next day, after 12 p.m.

The clerk spoke slowly to him, as if he were a child, or dull-witted. “Tomorrow,” she said, clearly enunciating the word, “you need to come back tomorrow after 12. Do … you … understand?” Miguel understood the language, he knew that tomorrow was mañana, but somehow the gulf between his idea of mañana and the clerk’s crisp timeline of 12 p.m. tomorrow were miles and miles apart.