This is the second in a five-part series detailing the arduous journey of Ramón Zepeda, an illegal migrant into the United States. In part one, Young Ramón Zepeda makes the decision to leave a bitter life on the streets in Nicaragua. Today, in part two, the journey north begins:

Ramón's odyssey is a morning dream on the verge of consciousness where only tattered bits and pieces of gossamer are remembered. He sticks to the roads that wind through the towns on his way north. His T-shirt and slacks are dirty. His chamarra (light coat) keeps him warm as the sun slips away. His legs ache and he becomes hungry. He keeps going.

He asks people if they will give him a ride. No one does. He stinks from days of walking. Everybody assumes he is a delinquent, a criminal, a bad person. Ramón knows in his heart he is not bad. He just wants to get away from Nicaragua. He gives up asking the strangers to trust him for a ride. He can do it by himself.

When he gets hungry, he knocks on doors of old houses and stops at the kitchens alongside the road. He begs for food or water. Mamacitas clean their pans and grills for scraps, which he woofs down.

At nightfall, Ramón lies down in a ditch and looks up at the dark sky. He is alone. He is tired and hungry, yet he senses more freedom than he has ever known. He looks down the length of the ditch to see if there is anyone else. His sense of liberty shrinks as the blackness closes in on him. He is afraid of being jumped right here, out in the open. He is afraid he will die by the side of the road. The cars and buses whiz by, but he manages to close his eyes.

The next morning, Ramón is up and walking again in the humid air. At a Catholic church, he meets a priest who gives him new clothes and new shoes. When he comes upon a stream he splashes in the chilly water to bathe himself. Each day is quickly forgotten as easily as each step is picked up and put down. It all blurs together. Along the way, he discards his boyhood as easily as his worn shoes, and he slips into the soles of impending manhood.

At the border between Nicaragua and Honduras, the risks outweigh the dangers. He knows the police could catch him here and send him back to Chinandega. He has no birth certificate, no papers to allow him to cross. He decides to simply walk through, even though the guards are armed with guns. He makes it past the official dividing line, and Honduran immigration officials stop him. He wraps his emotions in a blanket of cool to keep his nerves from tipping off the guards and feigns being Honduran. Inside fear rises from his belly to his mouth. It feels like a ball of dry string. He swallows it down. He tells it to shut up. No one asks him questions. He walks into the countryside. When the guards can no longer see him, his legs shake. He does not stop.

Right away, Ramón discovers that Hondurans are kinder, gentler. Many people open their doors to him. They give him clothes, but he really needs sneakers, or boots. His shoes keep breaking apart, splitting down the side and flopping open. Sometimes the shoes fit. Sometimes they are too big and he steps out of them. He doesn't care.

When Ramón reaches El Salvador, it is like walking into a cold wind. The people are mean. Doors are slammed in his face. He feels more exposed, more vulnerable. If something happens, who will help him here? He picks up his pace, hoping to get across the region as quickly as possible.

He's not even halfway to the United States, but he continues to pass others —older men, younger boys, mothers and children — also on their way north. He does not join them, even though he might feel safer. He believes others will presume he is part of a gang or a criminal. He decides it is best travel alone for now.

TOMORROW: The Lost Boys of Guatemala