As dawn neared and the sun peered through clouds, Oscar Nosta wondered if it was morning. “It must be morning,” he thought to himself. For three years it was a routine. Nosta would press his left eye against a crack in the wall that allowed him to feel the mist from the Rio Grande de San Miguel. As each night passed, Nosta averted his worst nightmares. During his days he hoped for miracles; with the darkness of night he wished for the morning sun to come back.