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I’m in Mexico.

I did this.

The line moves. I take four steps.

Everything is louder than I expected. Wheels clacking over tile. Announcements overhead. English near the gate, but less of it here. Real Spanish now, not textbook sentences about where the library is or the price of random shit. I only catch pieces.

I shift my backpack higher on one shoulder and check my phone. No service at first. Then one bar… two…

A message from Kev appears.

DID YOU MAKE IT OK? YOU SHOULD HAVE NO PROBLEMS. STILL, LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU’RE AT THE HOUSE.

Below that, another one.

ALSO SEND PROOF OF LIFE WHEN YOU LAND.

I type back quickly.

Alive. Sweaty. Still stuck in the airport.

I’m close enough now to see the immigration guy’s face. He’s not doing anything alarming. Just sitting there, bored and official, stamping passports and waving people through.

The man in front of me steps away from the counter.

My turn.

The officer looks at me and lifts one hand. My legs feel normal, but the rest of me is acting like I’m about to testify in court.

“Passport.”

I hand it over. He looks, then looks at me, then back to the passport.

I try not to let my face do anything weird.

“Purpose of visit?”

“Vacation.”

The word comes out steady. Technically not a lie.

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

Probably a lie.

He types something. The keyboard clicks loudly.

“Where are you staying?”

My mouth goes dry.

“Um… Airbnb.” Also basically true. So far, just one official lie. “I have the address.”

He looks at my phone as I hold it up to him.

“Puerto Vallarta.”