The old sheriff, Sheriff Romero, emerged from the general store, a weathered five-gallon jug of Chaparral sloshing gently in his hand. He tossed a bag of five chocolate bars onto the passenger seat of his patrol car, where the young deputy, Sanchez, waited impatiently. In the back, huddled together, sat a Mexican woman, her face etched with worry, and her two children, a boy of five with wide, curious eyes, and a girl of three, clinging to her mother’s dress.
Romero handed the boy a chocolate bar. The child’s face lit up, a fleeting smile breaking through the fear.
The engine roared to life, and the patrol car rumbled down the highway, carrying its unwelcome cargo back across the border.
“How was America?” Romero asked, his voice gruff.
The woman hesitated, then replied softly, “It was… a wonderful place. No violence. Jobs. Opportunities.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
The patrol car reached the checkpoint in Ciudad Juarez. The woman, her children clinging to her, and the two sheriffs walked towards the immigration office. The formalities were swift, efficient, and impersonal.
As the woman and her son began the long walk towards the Mexican side, the boy turned back, a small figure in the fading light. He held out the remaining chocolate bar to Sanchez. “Goodbye,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Sanchez stared at the retreating figures, the boy’s small gesture echoing in his mind. He slammed the car door shut, his frustration boiling over. “I can’t do this anymore, Romero. Everyone admires America. Loves America. These people… they’re part of America, aren’t they?”
Romero, his eyes fixed on the horizon, took a long swig of Chaparral. “This foolishness won’t last long, mijo,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But for now, we do our duty.”
The patrol car lurched forward, leaving behind the dust and the echoes of a life shattered.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonym
Mexico builds temporary shelters to prepare for mass deportations from US
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