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Migrantes. That word the locals in Ocós called us. We’re that. I’m that. Everyone on this boat is one, like the people who drowned here before we got to Ocós.
“India pendeja, hija de sesenta mil putas, cerota mal parida.”
“Mucho nadar se va a ahogar usted,”
Once I knew, then I forgot. It was as if I had fallen asleep in a field only to discover at waking that a grove of trees had grown up around me.
