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Those who have pissed out of the back of moving trucks

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There was something freeing about peeing out of the back of a truck in front of Alberto and God and all his fellow people. His mother would have been horrified but Ernesto had never felt so alive. The ground rolled away underneath them; they had been lucky enough to catch a ride with a group of migrants heading up the coast. This trip had taught him not to take transportation, food, shelter or the simple kindness of people for granted. The sky spread out above them, blue, cloudless, stretching to the horizon in seemingly limitless vistas. He shook, tucked and zipped with no spills (veteran with truck legs, he was now), and dropped back down beside Alberto and huddled close, wind whipping him a bit less now tucked in the lee of the truck’s side and Alberto’s bulk. He didn’t know how long their journey would take but he didn’t care. All the rest of medical school and exams, all of it shrunk compared to Alberto beside him and the people riding with them, their faces weathered and lined with more experience of the world than he had ever seen. The next adventure lay on the horizon and his future and his land stretched out before him, unknown.