The cargo is small bodies. A mass of tangled limbs cling to each other. I hold on to baby sister as we are tossed about the dank floor boards pelted by the spray of high swells. Baby’s sweet scent distinguishes her from the others, the smell of a powdery new born. Yesterday we were lingering along the dirt road that lead from the old school house to our home of splintered walls and dirt floors. We walked faster ignoring the slant eyes of the men in the van trailing us. Captured, our school books scattered on the path, we were bound, our muffled cries drowned our by the rumbling motors. Later we are miles off the coast of Venezuela, we can hear the voice of the boatman, his eyes watch for followers. We are fed La Rochas to transform our terror into sugar colored dreams. Upon waking we are in a sweet scented world of pale pink and silk fans. The Thai man’s slits of eyes smile behind angry walls.