At 7:05 am the next day, sometime after Simone, Andrea and I helped Arely call her daughter in Houston, there came the tweet. Donald J. Trump said he had strongly informed the president of Honduras that if he didn’t stop the caravan from reaching the US, “no more money or aid will be given to Honduras, effective immediately!” Five minutes later San Benito was empty and the caravan, crossing in front of the Basilica, was ready to resume its journey. The group looked well rested and excited. They had, after all, opened the first border that had announced it wouldn’t budge, and even if some people limped across the Main Square, they were ready to continue.

While many walked towards the highway, those who spent the night on the streets of Esquipulas crowded near a public faucet, to wash their teeth and faces. Others stayed behind, on the church, praying, taking pictures. One of Simone’s Olimpia friends, a young man whom we began calling Oli, took a selfie on the basilica’s steps.

“This león is going to los USA,” he declared. He was still wearing his red jersey.

There was Mario as well, chewing on some chips. He waved at us.

There was a family giving out mangoes.

Andrea and I hopped on the pickup at the front of the caravan, as Simone went to the back. We agreed to follow the group for a few miles, get some footage, and head back to the city. I took the wheel while Andrea, camera in hand, sat in the bed, recording. It was a cold morning and we were driving downhill, and people asked us to let women and children on the truck. “They’re tired, papa,” a man said. Before I could say a word ten mothers, with their children, sat by Andrea’s side. “See if you can get any comments,” I texted her.

“They don’t want to talk,” she replied.

As I put my phone back on the dash, I got another message from an unknown US number.

“Buenos días. Can you please tell Arely that we have sent her the money? 580 810 4700. That’s the password. We sent her $150. Thanks a lot. Can you please tell her to buy a phone? We’re awfully worried.” It was Arely’s daughter, writing from Houston.

“I will if I see her,” I texted back. “I’m a reporter from Guatemala. I’m not with her right now. I’ll tell her if I see her.”

“Please, it’s an emergency. She said she ran out of money. Please find her.”

I tried to remain calm. I looked in the rearview mirror, to the river of people, not really looking for Arely, but more like a reminder. I had to be realistic. No census or loudspeaker, no private eye would have been able to find Arely Orellana. “Hay muchísima gente,” I texted. “If I do see her, I will tell her. Otherwise, I imagined she’ll call you by the time she’s at the next city.”

“Ok. Thank you. Que Dios lo bendiga.”

I kept on driving at 10 miles per hour, behind a police car. People leading the caravan seemed as strong and excited as Olimpistas reaching the final; they waved flags, the clapped, they sang the national anthem. Though rage, hunger, and indignation still moved their feet, they looked unmistakably happy to resume their journey. Hope and the promise of prosperity weighed as much as the death threats that had gotten them out of San Pedro, and Tegus, and Olancho. Fear made them leave Honduras while hope made them walk the length of Guatemala. I wondered how Sergio and his wheelchair would find their way to the next city. I thought endlessly about Sergio and his wheelchair, because while those leading the caravan seemed as stable as athletes, as durable as luchadores, many of those at the back could barely stand up. Shoes were still torn. Blisters hadn’t healed. Ankles were still swollen. Simone confirmed that the elderly walked a few feet, sat on the grass, and remained there indefinitely. Soon it was clear that the people would not be able to walk all the way to the United States. Some started hopping on cars or grabbing on the sides of eighteen-wheelers; drivers were rarely informed. Every few minutes, men precariously gripping onto the insides of trucks, men with nothing but their toes on top of railings and fingers pinching on whatever was at hand came by my window, cheering, smiling, waving. Viva Honduras. I saw the tails of countless pickup trucks grazing the ground by the weight of a dozen people on top. I saw men racing to hop on the back of cars and trucks. I saw, on my rearview mirror, even the strongest men opting to hitch a ride.

At 10 am Simone called me. He said he had all he needed. I texted Andrea, saying I was going to park the car and that we had to ask people to jump out. “I have a problem,” she wrote. “A mother left me her baby.”

Mierda.

I parked the car. I let the women out and saw Andrea, with a bewildered look on her face, her camera in her right hand, a six-month-old baby and a small bag filled with diapers in her left.

“Andrea, ¿qué vamos a—?” I muttered.

“These are all victims of domestic violence. All of them,” she said. “His mother too. One told me that on Friday she cooked her husband breakfast, saw him leave for work, waited an hour, packed some clothes for her children, and left to join the caravan. This guy’s name is Jayden,” she said, looking at the baby. “His mother said she needed to find her mother. She had trouble walking and remained at the back of the group.” I told her we needed to find Simone. “Let’s go, then. We will find her too.”

Andrea began fixing Jayden a bottle. She said goodbye to the other mothers. Told them to be strong, que sigan adelante. I offered my deodorant and toothpaste to a father who had walked the whole way behind us and was now back with his kids. We turned the car around. “She’s got a green shirt,” she said. Jayden seemed happy. He liked playing with Andrea’s hair, with her camera strap. Andrea smiled and giggled. I did not. There were too many people uphill. “Pay attention. See if you can spot her,” I said, swallowing hard, thinking we wouldn’t be able to find Jayden’s mother. Did she bail out on her son? Did she abandon him? Leave him with Andrea, away from Honduran danger, thinking he’d be safer in Guatemala with us? Fear gave way to panic. I drove slower. The crowd moved as slow as lava. No one looked at us. They only cared for cars moving north. It would take people another day to start considering going back. In the meantime they walked looking down. Slowly, they moved. But even if they meandered, even if they seemed uninspired, the caravan, on top of the CA10 highway, gained seismic proportions. Colegio San Benito had prepared 1,400 meals, but there were early reports of up to 4,000 people marching. I freaked out. I thought we wouldn’t be able to find Jayden’s mother, Heidy. I imagined going back to the office, telling our editors what had happened, and trying to figure out what we would do with the little boy. It wasn’t an option to call the police. Would we get in touch with the Honduran embassy? With NGOs? Had Andrea asked for Heidy’s full name? Did she have a city of origin or neighborhood? Carajo. ¿Qué hacemos? I imagined Jayden growing up at a church, with a different name, not knowing his story or true identity, like thousands of Guatemalan kids who were sold during the Civil War to American and European couples. Will one of the nuns in Jayden’s church tell him, as he reaches adulthood, the truth? That he isn’t a Guatemalan orphan but a Honduran boy, left by his mother on her way to the US? That a group of reporters left him at a church? Will he find Andrea? Will he find me? Will Jayden ask us, right when we thought he had disappeared from our lives, what had happened to him? Will Jayden ask us to help him find his mother?

Suddenly, a small girl wearing a green shirt ran to the middle of the road and began waving at us. “That’s her!” Andrea shouted. “Heidy.”

I sighed and parked the car.

Heidy Bonilla was a short, brown-skinned girl with orange highlights in her hair. She introduced us to her limping mother, Mayra Orellana. Heidy’s mother was walking barefoot; someone had bandaged her right foot using a piece of cloth. They thanked us. Absentmindedly I said hello to them, and let them back in the car. Heidy had plenty of smiles to spare.

“I told you we’d find her,” Andrea said, as blood began filling my face again.

“Gracias, joven,” Heidy’s mother said and reached for my shoulder.

We found Simone minutes later.