For many, returning to Mexico remains perilous.

for Hector to hire a lawyer, and amass $3,300 to bond out of detention.

By the looks of his ramshackle home in San Benito, his family barely makes ends meet, but to hear Hector tell it, the life of a laborer in Mexico is far more precarious.

“It’s unfair,” said Alex, Hector’s 10-year old son.

Alex’s grades suffered while his father was in detention. Even now, the fear rises from the pit of his stomach each time he sees a DPS or Border Patrol vehicle parked in the neighborhood.

Hector’s lawyer says he has a solid case, yet under the presidency of Donald Trump the outlook for immigrants seems to become more daunting with each passing day.

“The government closes doors,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder what door they’ll close next.”

Too dangerous to go back

U.S. Attorney General Jeff Sessions last Monday instructed immigration judges to stop granting asylum to victims of domestic abuse or gang violence. The ruling could have significant implications for Alvarez.

In a couple of days, he will head to court to fight his case on a credible fear claim of being returned to Mexico.

In his hometown of San Fernando, Alvarez worked as a money courier, a notably dangerous profession, especially in a place notorious for the brutal murder of 72 migrants in 2010 and countless other disappearances.

“I was kidnapped by the Zetas,” Alvarez said. “They said they were going to kill me.”

Eventually he moved to Brownsville in summer 2013, afraid his continued presence in San Fernando put his family in danger.

For many deportees, returning to Mexico remains perilous.

A few days after his deportation, Juan Manuel Espinoza Loera, 52, was snatched off the streets of Matamoros, across the border from Brownsville, by a criminal group. Its members pried him for personal information, and after taking all of his money — about $35 — dumped him back on the streets.

Espinoza is no angel. He also was deported a decade ago when he gave a ride to a friend who crossed the border illegally. In March, he was cited by DPS when he failed to identify himself, and for driving under the influence, which resulted in his deportation. But after a lifetime spent in Texas, he is a stranger in Mexico.

He made between $2,000 and $3,000 per month painting houses and working odd jobs in Brownsville. His take-home pay in Matamoros is less than $150. Worse still, he recently tumbled off a ladder on a construction site and broke his wrist.

“First I was arrested, then deported and kidnapped, I broke my wrist and need surgery, but I’m broke,” Espinoza said. “All my clients in Brownsville are calling me for work, and I’m stuck here.”

While the outlook for Espinoza appears bleak, Alvarez still has hope that he might be allowed to remain in the country.

Because Mexican authorities were notoriously corrupt at the time, often working for drug cartels, Alvarez didn’t report his abduction. His case for asylum will hinge on letters of support from family and news reports of criminal activity in Tamaulipas.

For now he and his partner, Diana Acosta, 39, are trying to pick up the pieces of a life disrupted.

They saved all year to have Christmas presents for her three kids, and to send presents to his three children in Mexico. To finance his $15,000 bond, Acosta borrowed from friends and family, sold his truck and returned the presents. Besides, with Alvarez in detention over the holiday, the family didn’t feel much like celebrating.

“There were times I thought, ‘What do I do?’ ” Acosta recalled. “Still, we’re in debt.”

Complications from Alvarez’s arrest rippled through the family. After debt payments and Alvarez’s legal defense, little remained.

Buried amid the mounting bills was the DACA renewal paperwork of Acosta’s son, Angel, 17. The deferred action program that gives deportation reprieves and work permits to immigrants brought to the country as children allowed Angel to dream beyond his modest upbringing.

“I can’t work, I can’t travel, I can’t do anything,” Angel said. “Just thinking about all that, I don’t really go out.”

The family managed to send Angel’s DACA renewal form before his permit expired. Now he, like Alvarez, must wait for an immigration system that has become progressively harsher toward immigrants to decide their fate.

“For now we’re putting our faith in God that everything will work out,” Acosta said.

“We don’t want to think about the alternative,” Alvarez added.