Rather than advice they were given warnings. Don't let them walk you, it's too dangerous, whatever you do don't let them walk you. It's not going to be easy. You know you can't trust the Coyotes, they kidnap people and they will abandon you without hesitation.
Their ruthlessness and ability to travel through the night acquired the traffickers the epithet of "Coyotes." Like any profession, there were two types of people in trafficking. The rarer of the two—the ones that people fathomed for—were the Coyotes with the courtesy of profession. These were the men with no personal agendas who preferred clean deals and were mindful of the value of human life. However, the people were often burdened with Coyotes with an ambition for wealth—or the abductors and pimps. 
The people knew the dangers. I know, pero no me queda de otra—I have no other choices. All I can do is pray, I'm going to have to trust the Coyote, I don't know the way. Keep me in your heart, you know why I'm doing this, and don't worry, I'll be careful. If you don't hear from me—No, you're right. I will call you when I'm there, I'll call you when I can. They said their goodbyes and carried the weight of their facade of contentedness with them.
Then all they could do was pray. The heavens were lively with prayers recited from both sides of the wall. The people would would seek guidance from God, the saints, the Virgin Mary, and in some cases la Santa Muerte—the Holy Death, with desperation for the safety of their loved ones. Diosito por favor, please God, guide my mom, friend, brother, sister, show them the way, they are good people and all they seek is a chance to move the family forward from this wretched poverty, allow them to cross safely, te lo suplico, I beg of you. And please, God, deliver them evil. Amen. They proceeded with tearful eyes and rosaries gripped tightly in their hands with the strength of faith. On the other side distant relatives or friends would wait, anxiously, for they had heard the stories too, or known them from experience.
People from different states set off to the designated meeting ground, often at a rundown house or hotel, to encounter the Coyotes, whom were sometimes recommended, sometimes arbitrarily chosen in affliction. The groups ranged from ten to fifteen people of all ages. In each other's faces they reassured themselves of what was promised in the Promised Land; an American dream—a life enriched with prosperity. They packed lightly but not lightly enough, for the Coyotes made them throw everything out, or leave it to the house owner, you won't make it carrying all that stuff with you, they said. The reality of the degenerates' intentions were to corrupt the victims and burglarize their belongings for any valuables they had. And don't you worry, we won't walk you. If they catch you don't name who's crossing you. You guys came together, that's all you tell them. Either way we will try again.
The Coyotes were not to be trusted. They were studied by the people, the way they talked, the way they gave orders, everything was vital for the aspect of survival. The Coyotes remained on edge—their eyes constantly moving from corner to corner. Many of the men consumed illegal stimulants that they claimed help them to focus. In actuality, the drugs were utilized as an attempt for dissimulation. Despite their affirmations, they made the people walk through the nights, frightened and visually impaired due to nature's darkness.
When the sun descended it was time to advance, they left with nothing but the clothes on their backs, some water and an optimistic disposition. The only light that existed was the faint one that lived inside them, planted by hope. The chilled wind picked up the dust into the moonless sky, and the dust settled on the bodies of the travelers. The nights were bitter and the desert inhospitable, and nothing could have prepared the people to endure the hardships of the trip, rather than an endeavor to alleviate the deprivation of their families back home. The journey was a crossroads; it was the only thing that linked their new lives to their former ones. In the sky they saw the loved ones they had left behind. The American Dream was now more distant than ever, and the blindness in the dark left them only thoughts of those back home. It had been long since the fake parting-smiles wore off their faces, and their apprehension exposed them.
The sun rose and the light of day brought about sweltering conditions. For the travelers day time was time to rest, they sat under trees and bushes. If you're not careful, you can get bit or stung by desert creatures, the people were warned. With immensely blistered feet, the people were exhausted and mentally, emotionally and physically deprived. Many became ambivalent about the journey and voluntarily stayed in the desert, unwilling to go on. The groups were eventually depleted of resources. The people who stayed behind were either picked up by border patrol or descended into darkness; their bodies left to be swallowed by unmarked graves. To the families, uncertainty became certainty, and the lost souls were prayed for, and the hope that once lived inside them died along with the travelers.
The unfortunate groups were jumped at crossing, stripped of the few possessions they had, the women stripped of their integrity. The Coyotes themselves would frequently kidnap the groups, and blackmail their families. We made it across, they would say, but the fee isn't $1000 anymore, we want $3000. And the families who were subdued by the corrupt men were most likely never to see the travelers again, which they knew was a possibility when they deposited the additional cash. The groups never arrived complete. Those who prevailed the journey, some thought through grace of God, others through fate or luck, were faced with the brutality of the oblivion in their nonexistence—for they were the undocumented, there were no files to prove their existence in the Land of the Free, and they did not exist in their motherland, for they had abandoned it.
Half of the fee was paid before departure. The clean deals consisted of a trade off after the arrival of the travelers. El número, give me the phone number. It's time.
Bueno? Si Quien habla—who's calling? Yes, yes I'm his cousin, yes I have the money. Where? Store parking lot, yes I know where that is. Black car, okay, I'll be there.
The undocumented person would wait in a car, full of armed men, and they were not to be released until the money was secured.
Is that your cousin? Give 'em a wave, let 'em know you are alright, and don't try nothing, we already got half, got nothing to lose.
The man from the first car, who had received the remaining amount from the debt made a phone call, it's all here, déjalos ir—let them go.
Gracias a Dios, thank God you are here. I was so worried, we were all worried. How was la pasada, the crossing? Right you are tired—no really you don't have to tell me about it I'm just happy you are here.
Once I get a job I'll save up and send for you, the children had been promised. Nevertheless, they woke up without their mom, friend, brother, sister. The family and friends of those who were never heard from again were beset with overwhelming acrimony. The skies rumbled with passion-filled curses directed toward the gods and new framed faces were added to the alters on Dia de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead—confirmation of the absence of faith.