I just wanted to finish that job and go back to my sick son, but right before I crossed the border, they caught me. They searched the box. I didn’t put what they found in there. But in this line of work, man, nobody asks questions. And sometimes one mistake costs you your freedom or your life. They say that when they’re going to screw you over, it doesn’t matter what you do, you’re already marked.

My name is Miguel Andrade, I’m 42 years old, and I’ve been working the highways of this country for 20 years. My truck is a white Kenworth T680 with green stripes. I named it Monica in honor of my girlfriend, may she rest in peace. I always said she watches over me from heaven, but that afternoon, I don’t know, I felt like he was winning. It all started on Federal Highway 85D, almost at Nuevo Laredo.

I was carrying a sealed load that had been ordered from a warehouse in San Luis Potosí. It was an easy job, they said. Light load, good pay, no questions asked, they said. I was drowning in debt from my kid’s surgery, so I closed my eyes and accepted. But something didn’t feel right from the start, man.

The paper said automotive parts, but the box weighed less than usual and didn’t smell like metal; it smelled strange, like wet earth, like chemicals. I carefully tried to open the seal a crack, but then I thought, “Don’t get into trouble, Miguel, just drive.” I’d been driving for eight hours straight, only stopping for a pot of coffee and a sweet roll at a rest stop in Matehuala.

The sun stung my eyes, and the music on channel 19 of PX was silent, very silent. When the channel goes silent, we truckers know something’s wrong. And yeah, man, something was very wrong. A kilometer from the checkpoint, I saw the blue lights, two federal patrol cars blocking the road. They signaled me. An officer with a stern face raised his hand. I slowed down and pulled over.

My throat closed up as if I’d swallowed gravel. “What’s the reason for the inspection, boss?” I asked firmly. “Direct order. This load is marked.” “Marked.” “Marked? What do you mean, marked?” My hands were sweating. The officer climbed onto the running board and looked at me with eyes that had already judged me.

No matter what I said, I was already guilty. They opened the box with a knife. I watched from the rearview mirror, unable to move. I felt a sharp blow, a shout. “We’ve got something.” The officer pulled out a black bag, then another, then five more. “It wasn’t car parts, man. It was drugs, a lot of them.” They pulled me out of the car, handcuffed me. And as they threw me in the patrol car, all I could think about was who sold me out, who used me.

But what no one knew yet was that security cameras at a workshop in San Luis had recorded everything, and that would be my only hope of not rotting in jail. From the patrol car, with the handcuffs tightening around my wrists, I felt my eyes burning, not from fear, but from rage.

I’m no saint, but I’m no fool either. And never, listen carefully, never have I ever been a burden to others, but there I was, arrested, and my car, the Monica, parked as if nothing was wrong, surrounded by feds with long faces and suspicious eyes. One of them, younger, approached me and said quietly, “If you talk, things might go better for you.” “Talk what?” I thought.

I didn’t even know what I was carrying, or if talking about who gave me the job would get me into more trouble. In this line of work, if you open your mouth without proof, you end up in a ditch, or worse, your family does too. At the inspection office, they interrogated me for hours, asking if I knew the company owner, if I had handled the cargo, and why I hadn’t opened the box earlier.

No way, since when are we? We truckers are court inspectors, they give us the paperwork, the address, and we’re off. I told them everything. I said the job was offered to me by an old acquaintance, Greñas, from San Luis, a retired trucker who now gets loads without so much paperwork. I ran into him by chance at a diner.

He saw me looking hungry and offered me the job. “It’s a piece of cake, man, clean load and guaranteed cash. You just drive.” And I believed him. The problem was, I had no way to prove anything. No messages, no contracts, no recordings. It had all been discussed like old-school buddies. But just when I thought I was completely trapped, the signal came that brought me back to life.

My nephew Chucho, who works at a mechanic shop in San Luis, sent me a message. “Uncle, one of the shop’s security cameras recorded them loading your box, and you weren’t there. Holy Virgin of Guadalupe.” I asked him to send the video immediately. They wouldn’t let me see it right away, but when they received it, the federales’ faces changed.

One of them, an older commander, looked at me intently. “And why would someone put that in your load without telling you?” Good question, boss. I was wondering the same thing. My suspicion fell squarely on the long-haired one. But why would he betray me? What did he have to gain? I started to think, and then it all clicked. The long-haired one had a problem with the local cartel.

He needed a clean-cut, no-crime driver to move the cargo. And me, with my innocent face, was the perfect pawn. He used me. And now, even though the video saved me from a long sentence, I was still in jail, still stuck, because to get me free they needed to arrest those who had used me, and that wasn’t going to be easy. But an idea started to take shape in my head: what if I played dumb and helped them catch them?

I slept in a cold cell with a blanket that smelled of dampness and rotten memories. But that night I didn’t pray to God to get out. I prayed not to become what I swore I’d become: a snitch, an informer. But there was something stronger than my pride: my son waiting for me with a fever and no medicine. If I didn’t get out soon, I wouldn’t just lose myself, I’d lose him.

The next morning, the commander called me to his office. He looked like he’d seen too much in this life. And yet he still seemed to trust me a little. “Look, Miguel,” he said, “the video helps, but it’s not enough. We need the bastard who organized this. Are you willing to help us out?” I stayed silent, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and thought about the last time I hugged my son back in Zacatecas, when I promised him I’d come back with the money for his treatment.

Okay, boss, but we’ll do it my way. And that’s how it all started. I told them to let me go, to spread the word that I’d been released for lack of evidence, that I’d go back to San Luis acting like nothing had happened. If the long-haired guy thought I was stupid, he’d trust me again. And he did. Two days later, while I was eating some tripe tacos at the market, he showed up thin, with a disheveled mustache and his shirt open to his chest, as if he’d done nothing wrong.

“Miguelón!” he yelled in that treacherous voice he could no longer hide. “What’s up, long-haired one? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. On the contrary, man, I heard they let you go. See, I told you everything was going to be alright. Look, I’ve got another job just like it, better paying. That was the trap, and I had to bite the hook without flinching.”

How much do they pay? Double. But now the delivery is in Chihuahua. It’s a sure thing. When we left, my voice was trembling inside, but on the outside I sounded like I didn’t care about anything. That same day they gave me the pickup point, an abandoned lot on the outskirts of Soledad de Graciano Sánchez. They told me to meet them at dawn, but what the long-haired guy didn’t know was that I had a microphone hidden in my cap and that a few blocks away two black government trucks were already waiting to pounce on him.

I arrived at the spot with the Mickenworth T680 gleaming like nothing had happened. The guy who greeted me was out of this world, man. Cold eyes, tattoos even on his fingers, and the smile of someone who’d kill you for five bucks. “Don’t ask any questions,” he told me. “Just drive and stay on the route.” They loaded the box quickly, all in silence.

They wouldn’t let me near it, touch it, or even see anything. I just signed the fake paper and drove off. But right before I left, I saw something: a photo of me and my son stuck to the windshield, right where I’d left it months before. Someone had taken it from my original trailer and put it there. It was a message. They knew who I was. They knew everything.

They were making it clear that if I talked, they’d take away what I loved most. And that’s when, man, my heart sank because I understood that I wasn’t just a cop on an undercover operation anymore. I was a dad targeted by a cartel, and my son, an easy target. On to part four. The climax is coming. Miguel will have to make the toughest decision of his life.

Are you sticking to the plan or backing out to protect your family? Tell me, keep going and we’ll keep going without brakes. Like a semi-trailer truck on the Rumorosa. The highway to Chihuahua stretched like a hot scar across the desert. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, but my soul was already on fire, not from the heat, but from the fear of never seeing my son again.

I was driving with both hands on the wheel, my knuckles white. Channel 19 was on, but no one was talking. The plan was clear: follow the route, don’t stop, and wait for the feds’ signal to intercept the convoy. But after seeing that picture of me and my son taped to the windshield, something broke inside me. What if they already knew everything, and what if my son was in danger right now? I slowed down.

The truck roared as if it, too, refused to go any further. The engine gasped along with me. The little Virgin Mary hanging from the rearview mirror stared at me, as if waiting for me to decide if I was a man or a coward. I spoke to it in a low voice. “You know I’m not a snitch, but I’m not going to let them hurt my son either.” I took a side road onto a rural highway.

I turned off the PX radio and dialed a number I had saved from the night before. The commander’s voice answered immediately, “Are you coming? Change of route, boss. They’re hunting me down and I’m not going to die like a dog in this box.” There was silence. Then he said, “Where are you, old road to Delicias? I need you to get my son out of the house.”

There was no arguing this time. They knew I wasn’t crazy; I was a dad with his days numbered. Fifteen minutes later, I heard the drones buzzing, then the roar of patrol cars without license plates. They surrounded me like wolves. They pointed their guns, yelled, and made me get out with my hands up. One of the officers approached the trailer, opened the cargo box, and what came out froze us all in our tracks. It wasn’t just drugs, man.

There were long guns, grenades, tactical vests, encrypted radios, and worst of all, a list of names. My name wasn’t on it, but my son’s was. Yes, gay. My 9-year-old son’s name was among the possible contacts for pressure, threats, who knows what else. And at that moment it became clear to me, this wasn’t just some shady business anymore, it was war.

The commander saw me. His face was paler than the clouds gathering in the north. He told me bluntly, “This is coming from high up, very high up.” I nodded. My skin burned as if I’d been doused with boiling diesel. “My son is safe now. Your nephew has him. He’s in a safe place.” I collapsed right there on the dry earth. I wept like never before.

Not out of weakness, but out of relief, knowing that even if hell were licking at my heels, my blood was safe. But it didn’t end there. A week later, with the evidence in hand, they arrested Elgreñas. He didn’t resist. He said something that still haunts me at night. “Forgive me, Miguel, I have children too.” “Forgive me.”

After using me, after scarring my family, after almost condemning me, I looked him in the eyes. You’re already dead, you old fart, you just haven’t realized it yet. Let’s get to the last part, buddy. I didn’t drive again for three months. Mikenworth T680, Monica, stayed parked under a tarp, as if she too needed to heal.

Every time I saw it, I remembered the photo on the windshield, the betrayal, the fear in my chest, the rage in my fists, but I also remembered my son’s voice when I finally got to hug him. “You’re not going anywhere, Dad.” That’s when I broke down, man. I let go like I was carrying 20 tons of weight on my soul. I hugged him tight. I swore to him that I would never let him use me again, that I would never again put my life or his in the hands of people who don’t keep their word.

The police offered me protection, even money for my cooperation. I told them no, that all I wanted was to get back on the road, but on my own terms. I landed a steady job with a small company in Zacatecas that transported food between ranches. No border routes, no mysteries. Just roads, dirt, dust, and peace.

One day, at a roadside diner on Highway 57, I ran into an old trucker I’d known since my early days. Don Polo saw me, smiled his wrinkled face, and said, “You look different, Miguel, tougher, but with clearer eyes.” I told him everything, not in detail, but from the bottom of my heart. He listened without interrupting. In the end, he served me a pot of coffee with a nice warm sweet roll.

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Not just anyone can do what you did. But be careful, my son, because in this life, those who dare to be clean sometimes end up dirtier than the rest. The important thing is to let the mud reach your heart.” I left there with the taste of piloncillo in my mouth and a promise in my chest.

Never again will I carry what doesn’t belong to me, neither in my car nor in my soul. Today I keep on rolling. I didn’t get rich, I didn’t become famous, but every time I go through a traffic stop, I hold my head high because I have nothing left to hide. And every time I look in the rearview mirror and see my son’s picture on the dashboard, I smile because I know that even though they almost took everything from me, they didn’t take away the most important thing: my dignity.