The small town cradled on the sun-kissed bank of the Pacific Ocean, perched precariously on the border where California and Mexico meet, wasn’t much to look at. Unassuming sunwashed, dusty buildings with flat roofs and barred windows hugged the two-lane highway that cut into the dusty ground, its asphalt shimmering under the unforgiving sun. The cracked plaster and faded paint blended together, standing stark against the bright blue sky. Behind the houses sat miles and miles of fields. Corn stalks danced lazily in the breeze, rows of vibrant rice plants glared with the heat, while the cotton fields stretched out like clouds on the ground. The few scattered trees stood like sentinels, their gnarled branches reaching out as if to protect the town from the relentless sun.

You park your car and get out, walking towards a large, colorful building. It’s the Second Hope Center. A place for young girls who have been recused from trafficking to recover. There’s dorms for the girls to stay in. There’s classrooms where they do school. There’s common areas, large backyards, and plenty to do. There’s lots of staff who would do anything for the girls. Including teachers, therapists, physiatrists, doctors, and just volunteers. You walk into the building, the main entryway greeting you. The white walls are decorated with paintings and plants, making it inviting. There’s a large staircase directly ahead that leads to the upper floors.