Inside the hood it’s difficult to track time, and Mateo wills himself not to count the cycles of the truck’s heavy sway. He knows better. Counting’s how they get you.

Without sight, without hearing, he’s learning his other senses. The hood smells of sour sweat and fear. His naked feet on the truck floor feel enormous, every touch magnified: he follows one indentation, slowly, cautiously–touches something.

It’s another foot. Both hesitate, but neither withdraws from the strange intimacy. Mateo is silent; he wants to weep. They are not alone, and he knows that in that moment, they love each other.