The cargo deck is filled with small bodies. A mass of tangled limbs clinging to each other. I try to hold on to my baby sister as we are tossed about the dank floor boards, pelted with the spray of high swells. Her sweet scent singles her from the others, the fragrance of a powdery new born. Yesterday we were laughing lingering along the dirt path that lead to our our way from school along the dirt path to our house of walls, windows, and dirt floors. We covered our eyes from the burning sun and rejected the slanted eyes of the men in the van who rode alongside us. Scattering our books along the dirt road we were bound and blindfolded with the others. Later in the night we are miles off the coast of Venezuela, surrounded by indigo seas, we can hear the voice of the boatman, harsh and hurried, his slits of eyes watch for followers. We are fed La Rochas to transform our terror into sugar colored dreams. Waking up we are in a floating world of pale pink and silk fans. The face of the Thai Man smiles behind angry walls.