The Focus Effect

Thirty-one

Mr. Cardozo's pickup truck is a rough ride but it's a heck of a lot better than walking. He has secured two fifty gallon drums of diesel, complete with a nozzle and pump, against the cab in the bed of the truck.

The first part of our trip to Boa Vista is a bumpy, muddy one and we almost get stuck a couple of times. After a while, we reach paved roads and then Boa Vista an hour or so later. In a town called Bonfim, about two and a half hours northeast of Boa Vista, Mr. Cardozo pulls the truck over at a small gas station to fuel his truck and use the restroom.

"Better go," he says. "It'll be your last chance for awhile."

I don't bother trying to explain to him why I don't need to go but instead I head to the restroom and wash my hands. By the looks of the place, I'm thankful that I don't need to use it. Back at the truck, I climb inside and wait for Mr. Cardozo. There's a black digital clock stuck to the dashboard. Tucked behind it is a picture of Mr. Cardozo and his family. Mr. Cardozo has his arm around a woman holding a baby. At first, I mistake her for Isadora. But then I see Isadora, much younger, with two of her little sisters standing on the other side of her dad. I have to wonder where their mom is now.

The clock reads 1:13 pm. I reach into my bag sitting on the dusty floor of the truck and pull out the map Doctor Sue gave me. Bonfim is on the border of Guyana and Brazil. Anxiety begins to fill me. Mr. Cardozo had spoken of a secret compartment I am to hide in when we cross over. What if the authorities search his truck and find me? I guess that largely depends on what they do to people without passports or ID cards or those who are otherwise hiding from the authorities.

When I see Mr. Cardozo crossing the parking lot, he's carrying a brown paper sack that I suspect contains a bottle of booze. "Let me guess," I call out. "Tequila?" I squint at the sack. I don't get a response from Mr. Cardozo.

"You're not planning on drinking that now, are you?" I call out through the window as he approaches, giving him a dirty look.

He walks around the truck, opens the driver's side door and tucks the bag behind the seat. "Not now," he leans towards me and smiles. I see the features that he's passed onto his daughter light up on his face and I can't help but smile. I quickly replace it with a disapproving look and shake my head.

"You," he points at me, "in the back."

"Here? Now?" I ask.

He nods. "Bring your stuff."

I watch as Mr. Cardozo moves around the bed of the truck, lifting two inch steel flaps that cleverly hide the seam of a hidden door. When he lifts the door, a wide square box is revealed. There is just enough room for maybe two people to squeeze lengthwise inside. There are also holes in the floor of the box to allow for water drainage and air circulation, I suspect. He pulls blankets from a black trash bag and lines the inside of the hidden compartment. It reminds me of a coffin.

"Lay with your head towards the cab," he instructs as I climb into the back of the truck and step in. "Put your things at the bottom by your feet." He stuffs my backpack at the end of the compartment and I dump my bag next to it and lay down inside. I notice a piece of padding adhered to the door. It's aligned with the position that an occupant's head will be once it is closed. I find myself wondering how rough a ride I'm in for.

"Hold these." Mr. Cardozo reaches in and points to a metal handle. One has been welded to each side of the box. "It'll help keep you from bouncing around so much."

"Got it."

"I hope you're not afraid of enclosed spaces," he states more than posing it as a question.