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.
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