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flying south on Sasabe Road. Many weeks passed, and soon it came time to climb into the 4-Runner with Walter for a final desert patrol. We had barely left dim, still-sleeping Tucson when we saw a Border Patrol vehicle parked by the side of the road and pulled over to investigate. Two boys sat in the dust, their faces streaked with grime. The agents stood many yards away, not facing them, chatting and laughing. They boys were uncuffed, not restrained in any way. We asked the agents for permission to speak with their apprehended quarry. They shrugged. ‘Sure, sure.’ I approached and knelt beside them to hear their story. The taller, darker one did all the talking. They were both sixteen years old, both from Veracruz, Mexico. They had become separated from their group in the night, when a Border Patrol helicopter caused the group to panic and scatter. The smaller boy had bloody scratches all over his arms. From groping his way among saguaro, ocotillo and prickly pear cactus in the moonless night, his friend 42 explained. I dug in the first aid kit for the disinfectant spray. He silently held out his arms, wincing as the medicated mist coated his skin. The taller boy downed the electrolyte drink we offered in a few seconds, the neon red liquid running down his chin, but politely refused another one. For the first time, the smaller boy spoke. The voice that came from between his cracked lips sounded rusty, little-used. ‘Where will they take us, when they take us?’ A year ago I would have been able to say that he’d be bussed back to the border that same afternoon. Now, Arizona’s ‘Operation Streamline’ puts a portion of the day’s apprehended migrants on trial, jails them for a period, and then deports them. If they’re caught re-entering, they already have a criminal record, and can sit in tax payer-funded prison for several years. Some migrants get ‘streamlined,’ some simply deported as before. I couldn’t
say for sure which fate would meet these boys. Walter stood behind me, shifting his weight in the gravel, eyes on me, on the agents, on our car. I felt a light tap on my shoulder. ‘Tell them they’re our brothers,’ he said. Dijo que ustedes son nuestros hermanos. The boys looked at their feet. The first prodded his sanitized scars with mud-encrusted fingers. ‘Tell them… tell them…’ we didn’t know what to tell them. I drove the next leg. The road stretched ahead of us, endless, squirming in the noon heat. We counted the Border Patrol vehicles aloud as they sailed by. ‘They’re thick as thieves today,’ said Walter, clamping a cigarette between two long fingers and patting his shirt pocket for a lighter. I managed a smile. We were setting out gallon jugs of water on a trail, nesting them between the dusty rocks of a dry riverbed, when a man burst out of the foliage and cheerfully strode up to us. ‘Hi, good morning,’ he said in perfect, accent-less English. He was sweating through his black shirt, and eagerly shed his pack. He grinned at Walter and me as we blinked and stared. We shook hands, exchanged names. Walter. Alice. Ramón. We refilled his nearempty jug. Between sips, he explained that he had been living in Phoenix with his wife, a U.S. citizen, for 22 years. One day, leaving work, he was asked for papers, arrested and immediately deported. His wife was hysterical when he finally called her, days later, from Mexico. Now he was making his way back to her, facing the desert’s cruelty alone because he couldn’t afford a guide. We gave him water, food, fresh socks for his raw and blistered feet, several tablets of ibuprofen. Walter knew of an unofficial safehouse in a small town just nine miles north, a trailer owned by a sympathetic rancher where migrants could spend the night before facing the next phase of their journey. He pointed it out to the man on a map, told him