Holy Child of Atocha, thank you for having heard my prayers. I organized a bus trip to Zitucuaro, Michoacan, because I had a bus. It’s an old model but in good conditions. We almost arrived there when suddenly we were stopped by three armored men. They called themselves agents and began to check the passengers—as they were saying— for drugs and weapons. I was worried for kids. There were 10 of them in the bus. I think they were “sicarios” hitmen, because they were asking me what gang I’m in. I prayed them to let us go and finally they did.
Mexico City, 1981