Imagine fleeing your abusive husband. Now imagine that husband is a crime boss, a member of a drug cartel, and you have two children you want to protect. Imagine taking those children, one of whom is in a wheelchair due to muscular dystrophy, and secreting them away, traveling by bus across an entire country, then throwing yourself at the feet of a government that may or may not want to let you in.

Such is the stuff Vilma is made of. Escaping a husband who beat her and worked for a drug cartel in Honduras, she wanted better for herself and her two sons. But what to do? She brought Manuel, 10, in his wheelchair, and Julio, 14, two lively fun-loving boys, by bus through Mexico to America’s doorstep, selling water and food along the way. In Calexico she sought out the Border Patrol officers and asked for asylum. After five long days in detention, she and her sons were granted asylum.

But now what? Days later, this tough woman who barely spoke english found herself in the heart of San Diego’s East Village, sharing one large red apple among the three of them, pitching a tent under a "No illegal lodging" sign, and using her intuition to decide who to trust and who not to trust on the street, to keep her boys safe. She didn’t sleep through the night, keeping at least one eye open for trouble. She learned where the opportunities for housing or other assistance might be, and applied for a space at St. Vincent de Paul.

Meanwhile, the boys found a skateboard. It meant the world to Manuel, who could be a typical young boy, skating up and down the sidewalk on 16th Street, laughing and jumping over broken concrete and bumps in the pavement. It made him mobile, gave him freedom from the wheelchair. Ironically, they camped next to a couple that also employed a wheelchair. So Manuel found a kindred spirit in the blond, older woman with whom he couldn’t share a language, but could exchange knowing glances.

Julio found a book of word games. through those games he’s learning English. Manuel buzzes up and down the sidewalk on his skateboard scaring the pigeons up from the curb when he gets too close to the street. Vilma has eyes in the back of her head. She sees when certain people show up on the corner. Her experience in Honduras has taught her to read the body language of drug dealers. So she knows when it’s time to rein the boys in closer. She’s proud of who they are, what they’ve learned along their journey. Hopefully, this week, she will be sheltered, with her children.

“I wan t them to grow up and learn to help others,” she said in Spanish. “They have experienced so much, and they have big hearts. They will be strong and can be model citizens here.”