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The nightmares come in waves, and when Carlos* opens his eyes, the tears are often already streaming down his face, forming a crusty residue on his cheeks. He stares at the ceiling, twists to one side and then the other. If he has some marijuana, he smokes it since it makes him drowsy. If he’s lucky, he grabs another hour of rest before he goes to work.
There are many things that keep Carlos awake: his two children who live in two different countries; his former boss, whose nickname, Cherry, belies his love of a good fight; US immigration authorities, who know him intimately from the five times they have deported him. But more than anything, what he sees when he awakes is a moribund, twitching leg he had to chop off to prove his loyalty to a Mexican criminal organization.
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