I arrived at the coffee shop each morning at six-thirty, half an hour before the first customers. I ground pre-weighed beans and started the drip machine, filling three insulated airpots with coffee. I dialed in the espresso grind, weighing and timing each shot until I got the right yield, the right ratio of grounds in to liquid out. I turned on the water tower. I displayed bags of whole-bean craft-roasted coffee in neatly arranged rows. I set up a pour-over station, with scales and glass carafes and ceramic V60 drippers made in Japan. I unlocked the retail refrigerator, full of Italian sodas and green glass bottles of sparkling water. I set out the chocolate and vanilla and caramel syrups, I filled an insulated pitcher with organic half-and-half and restocked the to-go station with hot sleeves, stir sticks, straws, lids, napkins, and raw sugar packets. I walked across the courtyard to fetch ice from the commercial kitchen. Then I unfolded the wooden shop sign in the courtyard, removed the “closed” placard from the countertop, opened the register, and set out my tip jar.

The coffee shop was one of many retail outlets in a shared marketplace, a small business complex situated around an open-air courtyard in the style of an old Spanish mercado. At six-thirty in the morning I encountered few other workers as I puttered about: the pastry chefs at the Mexican bakery, the prep cooks at the taco shop, and the maintenance man who maintained the mercado grounds—a strong and clean-shaven man from Oaxaca named José, dressed always in a black baseball hat and a gray T-shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders and tucked neatly into a pair of black jeans. José would clean the surface of the courtyard with a garden hose or a long-handled push broom. He regularly cleared the adjacent sidewalks with a leaf blower, rippling small waves of debris toward the street gutters to be swept away by monsoon rains and hot summer winds. He arranged the courtyard furniture, unlocked doors with the keys dangling from his waist, punched in codes to disarm the security system, and opened the gates of the mercado to let in the day’s first customers.

José and I often talked to each other across the counter of the coffee bar in the early hours before the morning rush. We spoke in Spanish, exchanging cordialities. He asked about my graduate studies, about my travel plans, about my luck with women. He asked about my family, and I asked about his. He asked about my mother, about the health of her heart, and he would ask that I greet her on his behalf when I left the city to visit her. I asked him, in turn, about his wife and three boys. He stood proudly with his arm resting on the countertop the day his oldest son started high school, smiled broadly the day his youngest boy won his first soccer tournament, and leaned infirmly on a broom handle the day his middle son was hit by a car. He’s getting better, he would say for months after the accident, gracias a Dios.

—

José knew I had spent several years in the Border Patrol, but he rarely questioned me about the work, almost as if there were not much to ask. Likewise, I relinquished certain questions about his arrival and status. In my day-to-day interactions with migrants—the customers at the coffee shop, the workers I encountered throughout the city, the day laborers who came to the park to play pick-up soccer with my friends and me in the evenings—I often recognized subtle marks left by the crossing of the border, an understanding of its physical and abstract dimensions, a lingering impression of its weight. I sensed this knowledge in José as well, but there was little way to speak of something so imprecise, and so we regarded each other with nods and silences, with glances and gestures, with something that soon became friendship.

One day, as I stood counting tips at the end of my shift, José pulled up a chair at the bar and sat to drink from a bottle of sparkling water. As I changed out a pile of singles for a twenty-dollar bill, I could feel his eyes resting on me. I looked up at him and he motioned for me to come near. Oye, he said in a hushed tone, when you were in la migra you must have made good money, qué no? Sure, I said. He looked around to make sure no one was within earshot and then leaned closer. More money than you make here, qué no? I laughed. Claro que sí. He leaned back in his chair, confused. Entonces por qué lo dejaste? I shrugged, somehow surprised that he had finally asked. In the end, I said, it wasn’t the work for me. I avoided his eyes, thinking of what more to add. Finally I looked up at him. I wanted to go back to school, I said, study writing, earn a master’s degree. José gave me a mischievous grin. A student doesn’t make much money, he said. I chuckled and gestured at the small pile of tips on the counter. He looked at me unbelievingly. You could make more somewhere else. But I like the pace, I said, and the people are nice. I pointed at the espresso machine. The coffee’s good too. José laughed. Claro, he said. Todo el mundo necesita café.

José continued to look at me curiously. Why study writing? he asked. Why not business, medicine, politics? Así podrías ganar más dinero. I shrugged again. Writing seemed like a good way to make sense of what I’d seen. José sat back in his chair. Ah. Ahora te entiendo, he said. I could write many books, he added after a while. He visto muchas cosas.

—

José and I often spoke of the drug wars and the disorder swirling in Mexico—the forty-three students who disappeared in Ayotzinapa, the endless cartel shootouts along the border, the persistent corruption of police and government officials. One day he told a joke. There was this big deer-hunting contest, he began, with hunters from the U.S., Russia, and Mexico. On the first day, the Americans came triumphantly before the judges, but the carcass they presented was so destroyed by their high-powered weaponry that it was unrecognizable as a deer, so they were disqualified. On the second day, the Russians brought in the body of a large buck, but when the judges discovered the animal had been poisoned instead of properly hunted, they too were disqualified. A third and a fourth day passed and still there was no sign of the Mexicans. On the fifth day, the judges finally decided to go looking for them. After several hours of searching, they found them in a clearing in the woods, huddled around a rabbit. One of them was torturing the animal without mercy, while another stood over it, shouting: Confess you’re a deer, motherfucker!

On the day the Mexican military captured El Chapo Guzmán in 2014, José asked me, Do you think it’s really him? I don’t know, I replied, do you? I’m not sure. He has body doubles, you know? José paused. Or maybe the government made arrangements to arrest someone who looks just like him. Several days later, José showed me pictures that had turned up on the Internet—zoomed-in images of the drug lord’s face side-by-side with pictures from his prior arrest in 1993. Se ve diferente, he said, qué no? I studied them. Puede ser, I offered. He set his phone on the counter and stared at one of the photos. He doesn’t really look like a drug lord, he said. No se ve tan malo. I poured him a cup of coffee and leaned against my end of the counter. You never know, I told him. Violent people look like everyone else.

José looked up at me. When you were on the border, he asked, did you ever find drugs? Sure, I told him. More than you can imagine. He nodded slowly, his eyes unblinking. Did you ever arrest a narco? Sure, I said. But not like El Chapo. José listened intently. We mostly arrested the little people—smugglers, scouts, mules, coyotes. I watched as a knowing look spread across his face. His eyes met mine and held them until I turned to look away. But mostly I arrested migrants, I confessed. People looking for a better life.

—

Around nine or ten in the morning, every day without fail, José brought his breakfast to the coffee bar and sat at the counter to eat. He ate the same thing each morning, a vegetarian breakfast burrito from the taco shop next door, and every morning he offered to share it with me. Vas a querer burro? he would ask, and most mornings I would accept. Grab a knife, he’d say, cut it in half, take however much you want. I made him coffee in exchange, always in a paper cup, flavored with a shot of vanilla and a splash of half-and-half. He often commented on the quality of the burrito: it’s good today, the beans are cold, there’s too much salt, there must be a new cook. He would comment on the salsa: it’s watery today, it’s not spicy enough. Sometimes he would even come to me before ordering: I could order black beans instead of pintos, I could add avocado, qué te parece?

Some days José would offer to split a dessert with me, donuts or yellow cake from the bakery next door. One morning, he brought in breakfast made by his wife, comida típica de Oaxaca, he told me. He offered me as much as I wanted—I eat like this all the time, he said, smiling. As I ate from his Tupperware, I told him I had once arrested two men from Oaxaca. José’s eyes grew wide. Oh, sí? he asked. They were good people, I told him, gente humilde. José smiled. Así somos en Oaxaca. They shared their food with me just like this, I told him. I described the beef jerky, the grasshoppers, the dried fish. José beamed, his eyes hungry and sparkling. Carne seca, he said, chapulines, charales. But the best part, I continued, was the mezcal they gave me, made by their father right there in their village. José sat back and opened his mouth. Ahhhh, he said, el mezcal es muy bueno.

José leaned on the counter and shook his head, looking down at the wood grain. Yo antes tomaba mucho mezcal. My cousin, he makes his own mezcal, he harvests the maguey from around our village. We used to drink it straight from the still. He gazed out the window and across the courtyard. Fui alcohólico, he admitted quietly. He straightened his back. Pero ya no, he told me, I’ve been sober for fifteen years, ever since my first son was born.

Day after day, month after month, every morning at the coffee shop was the same. José would complete his daily tasks and then come to the counter to talk and share his food. For nearly two years there wasn’t a single day he didn’t come, not a single day he didn’t sit down and offer to break bread with me.

—

One morning I asked José about his home in Oaxaca. His village was small, he told me, nestled in the jungled mountains south of the capital. It’s peaceful there, he said—so far the violence hasn’t come for us. Where I’m from the people are humble and hardworking. There’s little money to be had, he said, but in my village the people still haven’t turned to drugs and killing.

Later that morning, during a lull in business, he came to the counter with his smartphone. He opened Google Earth and spread his fingers across the screen, bringing close the state of Oaxaca, the green hills surrounding his village. He smiled longingly at the satellite image, pointing to neatly cultivated fields at the settlement’s edge. This is where my cousins make their mezcal, he told me with glinting eyes. In Street View he pointed at colored buildings and cracked roads. This is the church, he said, his voice far-off and trailing, this is the municipal plaza. I interrupted our conversation to refill coffee mugs, to take the order of a customer, but each time José remained at the counter, absorbed in his phone. Look, he called to me, it’s my mother’s house. I walked over and he pressed his finger at the screen. You can tell by the arches. He sat back in his chair, smiling.

—

The first time my mother took me to Mexico I was just a boy, still unable to grasp and file away memories. She took me by train through the state of Chihuahua to a place called Casas Grandes, site of the ancient Mogollon settlement of Paquimé. I wanted to go to Mexico with my little boy, she would later tell me, because I wanted him to grow up knowing the border, to see it as a place of power, a place of discovery.

My mother had just separated from my father and was seeking to prove to herself that she did not need protection, that she could travel as a single woman in a way that trusted people, in a way that imparted this trust to her son. When we arrived at the town near the ruins, my mother took me to a market next to the station and asked the man working there if he knew of a place where we could stay. My mother remembers how the man smiled at her without menace, how he referred to her—for the first time in her life—as señora instead of señorita. He wrote down the name and address of a woman with a guesthouse nearby. She doesn’t like to take in many people, he said, but she’ll take in a mother and her child.

Later that afternoon, after leaving our belongings at the guesthouse, my mother remembers going with me to a small plaza. She remembers that there were women and children there, that the women greeted her warmly, that one woman even gave her a hug before bending down to speak to me in Spanish. The woman introduced me to her little boy and we ran off together to play on the steps of the gazebo as my mother joined the other women. My mother tells me that never before had she felt so accepted by a group of women. She describes the moment as transcendent. It didn’t matter that her Spanish was poor, that she came as a tourist from another country. It didn’t matter, she says, because we were mothers.

The next day, the man from the market drove us to the ruins of Paquimé. When we arrived my mother found that the park was closed for archaeological work. But the men who worked there, seeing that she was a mother, seeing that she had come from so far away with a small child, welcomed us to walk through the ruins. As we walked I became fascinated by the men at work. Before long, I was improvising a game of cowboys and Indians. I would hide behind a rock near the workmen and then pop up with my arms outstretched and my fingers pointed at them. I would make the noise boom. My mother remembers how one man stopped what he was doing to clutch his chest and fall backward, feigning death. She remembers how I laughed with delight. She remembers how another man threw down his tools to jump behind an ancient mud wall. He popped up with his fingers aimed at me. Boom, he said, and I jumped back in surprise.

My mother still remembers how I ran laughing through the labyrinthine ruins that afternoon, chasing and hiding from the workers. She remembers losing sight of me but remaining calm. She remembers trusting me, trusting the place, trusting the people around us.

—

On a blazing summer day I noticed that José had not come to work. Late in the morning the owner of the mercado, a woman named Diane, came in for her daily latte. I asked her if she had heard from José. He called me last night, she said. His mother is dying, poor thing. He’s taking two weeks off to go to Oaxaca so he can see her before she passes. She took a sip of her latte and looked out the open door to the courtyard. I know what it’s like, she said. I was with my mother the night she died. She passed in her sleep, bless her heart. Diane gazed up at the ceiling. You know, she said, it was the saddest thing, but it was so important for me to be there. She looked back across the counter at me and I struggled to find something to say. Diane shook her head. I’m sorry, she said, I just feel so bad for José, he’s such a sweet man. She took another sip of her latte. And I’ll tell you what, he’s the best worker we’ve ever had. She held up a finger. In three years of working for me, this is the very first day he’s ever missed.

A couple of weeks later, as Diane sat at the bar drinking another latte, I asked her if there was news from José. She glanced at the customers seated on either side of her. He’s still in Oaxaca, she told me, tending to his mother’s estate. Oh, I said. Later in the day, as I was restocking the supply closet, she called to me from the open door, asking me to come outside.

We walked to the dirt parking lot and I stood with Diane under the glaring summer sun. I didn’t want to say this in front of your customers, she began, but I think José is having problems getting back into the country. What kind of problems? I said. She looked into the distance. I don’t think he has papers, she told me—we never asked. I shook my head and looked down at the dirt. I wish I could have talked to him before he left. There’s nothing you could have said, she told me. Trust me, there was no stopping him. I looked back up at Diane. He doesn’t know, I said, getting back across isn’t what it used to be. I turned and stared out at the parked cars, squinting against the sun.

Is there any way to get ahold of him? I asked. I can give you his family’s number, Diane told me. The last I heard he was at the border, trying to get across. Oh no, I said. He can’t cross now. Not in the summer. Diane looked at me. I have to talk to him, I said. I closed my eyes and saw images of volcanic stone and swollen bodies, of hospital sheets and blackened skin. No, I whispered, not José.

—

When I called the house, a small boy answered. I introduced myself as a friend of José’s. Are you his son? I asked. The boy said nothing. I work with your dad, I continued. I heard he’s at the border, trying to get across. Is he okay? After a long silence the boy finally spoke. Do you want my mom to call you? he asked. Sure, I said, and then he hung up.

Half an hour later my phone rang. Soy Lupe, the woman on the other line said, esposa de José. I introduced myself again as a friend from work and told her I was wondering about José. Lupe was silent, as if considering what to say next, how much to tell me. I wanted to blurt out that it was too hot, that it wasn’t worth risking his life, that he must wait to cross. It’s funny you called, she finally said, because I just got off the phone with the Mexican consulate. They called to tell me José was arrested two days ago by Border Patrol. He has a court hearing later today, at two. They didn’t tell me where. I paced with the phone in my hand, pressing it hard against my ear. Lupe’s voice sounded thin, as if it were all she could do just to repeat what had been said to her. Today at two? I asked. Yes, she confirmed. I continued pacing in my home, old procedures and timelines rising up in my mind. I think I know where he’ll be, I told her. Can I call you back?

—

It had been months since I had seen or talked to Morales, but I called him anyway. Hey, vato, do you still work at the courthouse? I asked. Simon, he said, but not today. Por qué? I think I have a friend who’s getting Streamlined, I said. Shit, a few years out of the patrol and suddenly all your friends are mojados? I tried to think of a comeback. I’m just kidding, Morales said before I could reply—I know how it is. Of course you do, I shot back at him, did you think I forgot you’re from Douglas? Shit, you could be a mojado yourself and not even know it. You better not forget to wear your uniform when you show up to court, güey, they might deport your ass. Oh damn, Morales laughed, shots fired!

I asked Morales if Streamline proceedings were still open to the public. Yeah, he said, hippies and protesters come all the time. You never had to go to court? No, I said. Well, you know where the courthouse is, downtown? Go to the second floor, the main courtroom—and be there by one-thirty. I looked at my watch. Will I be able to see him? I asked. Sure, Morales said, if you can pick him out. There’ll probably be thirty or forty guys today, and everyone will be facing away from you, pendejo. Can his family come? I asked. Sure, he said. I don’t know if they’re documented, I told him. It shouldn’t matter, he assured me, no one will mess with them. Will they be able to talk to him? I asked. No, Morales answered matter-of-factly. But if you sit on the right-hand side of the courtroom, in the front two rows next to the wall, you should be able to catch his eye as the marshals walk him out.

—

Lupe and I met for the first time outside the courtroom. She came with the pastor from her church and her three boys—fifteen, ten, and eight years old, all of them called out from school in hopes of seeing their father in court. I held the door of the courtroom open for the family and gestured toward the benches against the right wall. The front rows, I whispered. The proceedings had begun just as we entered the courtroom, and I immediately noticed the smell—a smell I had not encountered in years, the sharp scent of dozens of unwashed bodies that had for days struggled through the desert, skin sweating and sunbaked. The courtroom was cathedral-like, with towering ceilings of brightly colored beams painted in turquoise and coral. From his bench the judge loomed over the room, a small white face emerging from black robes and seated beneath the massive seal of the United States of America, a giant eagle with its head turned as if to look away.

I sat next to Lupe, who held her youngest son close to her body with her oldest son seated beside him. Behind us the pastor sat with the middle son. The judge addressed the forty-some defendants seated before him, most of them male, all of them wearing black headsets, listening to the words of an interpreter. All of you have been charged with two crimes, the judge began. I understand that each of you intends to plead guilty to the petty offense of illegal entry at a place other than one designated for entry by U.S. Immigration. In exchange for your plea, the government has agreed to dismiss the felony offense of reentry after removal. Some of the men hunched over, holding the headsets close to their ears. It is important that you understand this, the judge continued. If you understand, please indicate so by standing. He paused. All the men stood, some rising up from their chairs with their shoulders back and their heads held high as if in defiance, while others seemed barely able to get up from their seats, their bodies slumped, their faces downcast.

The maximum penalty for this charge is six months in prison and a $5,000 fine, the judge went on, but the government has agreed to waive this fine in exchange for your plea today. I caught the eye of a Border Patrol agent, who glared at me as if I were somehow allied against him. I stared at his green uniform, at the badge on his chest, the gun on his belt, the iron-creased lines running down his sleeves. You must understand, the judge continued, that in the future this charge will always be used against you, that if you are arrested attempting to reenter the country, you could serve years in prison, not days or months.

I leaned over to Lupe. Do you see José? I asked. I don’t know, she said, I can’t see their faces. Next to her, her youngest son kicked his legs nervously against the bench in front of him. She placed her hand gently on his thigh. Tranquilo, she whispered into his hair. On the floor of the courtroom, the defendants began to file out of their chairs five at a time. Their ankles were chained to one another and their wrists were bound at the waist. They stood before the judge, flanked by court-appointed attorneys—dizzied men and women darting from one client to another in pale suits. The judge began with the person standing to his left. Mr. Amaya, he read, as if from a script: Are you a citizen of Mexico? Sí. On or about August 31, 2015, did you enter the United States near Lukeville, Arizona? Sí. Did you come through a designated port of entry? No. How do you plead in the charge of illegal entry? Culpable, señor.

After repeating this set of questions for each defendant, the judge issued his sentence—for most, thirty days of incarceration in the state detention center an hour north of the city, with credit for time served. One woman, after answering the judge’s questions, interrupted before he issued her sentence. I’m pregnant, señor, she said. The judge paused. He looked around, as if for guidance. I’ll put a note in your file, he said, for someone to see you at the facility.

Watching the defendants shuffle to the front of the room to stand before the bench, I realized that I had never before seen so many men and women in shackles, that I had never laid eyes on a group of people so diminished. I had apprehended and processed countless men and women for deportation, many of whom I sent without thinking to pass through this very room—but there was something dreadfully altered in their presence here between towering and cavernous walls, lorded over by foreign men in colored suits and black robes, men with little notion of the dark desert nights or the hard glare of the sun, with little sense for the sweeping expanses of stone and shale, the foot-packed earthen trails, the bodies laid bare before the elements, the bones trembling from heat, from cold, from want of water. It dawned on me that in my countless encounters with migrants at the hard end of their road through the desert, there was always the closeness of the failed journey, the fading but still-hot spark from the last flame of the crossing. But here, in the stale and swirling air of the courthouse, it was clear that something vital had gone missing in the days since apprehension, some final essence of the spirit had been stamped out or lost in the slow crush of confinement.

The pastor leaned forward and pointed toward a gray-haired man who had just stood to walk to the front of the courtroom. It’s your dad, he whispered to the boys. They looked at the man and then at each other, wide-eyed. Es él, the pastor said, gesturing again and again, es él. The boys sat forward in their seats to get closer. No está, the boys confirmed with each other, no, no está. Yes, the pastor said emphatically, that’s your father. You don’t recognize him because he shaves his head, but his hair has grown out and he has stubble now, you can even see his bald spot. Se ve diferente. The boys looked at each other. Él es, Lupe said finally. It’s him. The boys sat on their hands, dumbstruck, their mouths agape. Beside me, Lupe slowly doubled over, placing her forearms on her thighs with her palms open at the knees, her head sinking into her hands as she gently rocked in place, cradling herself in her own embrace.

As José shuffled through a row of chairs, the soft tinkling of his shackles seemed to fill the room. When I finally caught a glimpse of his profile, I saw the face of a man adrift at sea, his eyes scanning the horizon as if out of habit, with little actual hope of sighting land. He wore a sweat-stained T-shirt that seemed to swallow him, and his body appeared small and gaunt and slumped inward, his face and head leathered and speckled with gray hair. As he turned, he caught sight of his three sons with their mouths open and their arms draped around their mother, who had finally lifted her head. He gasped audibly, his eyes dilating in disbelief. He looked away and then back again, focusing and unfocusing his vision in confirmation. Quiet sobs began to seize his children, and I wondered if I had done something terrible by bringing them here. José took one last look at his family, his mouth slack and twisted, his eyes wide with longing, and then, with great force, he began to thrash his head downward, to and fro, as if trying to shake a nightmare upon waking.

—

I’ve been thinking a lot about this case, José’s court-appointed attorney told me when we met a week after the Streamline hearing, in an empty hallway outside the courtroom. Alone among the forty or so others, who were convicted and sentenced without distinction, José had been granted a continuance at the request of his attorney and scheduled for a follow-up hearing. Walter, the attorney, had advised Lupe not to come—it’s too risky to show up at the courthouse without papers, he told her. But the boys could come, he said, they’re citizens, no problem. And so Lupe took the boys out of school once again to see their father in shackles and asked me if I would bring them. Of course, I said.

You know, Walter continued, I woke up thinking about Mr. Martínez in the middle of the night. It’s not that his situation is unique, because it’s not. But it’s unusual to see so much support for someone in the courtroom, to see their family right there in the gallery. Walter was silent for several seconds. I have a son, he said, gesturing toward José’s oldest—they’re the same age. I woke up this morning and I could hear my son out in the kitchen. It got me thinking. No father should be kept from his family this way, no father should have a young son and wake up unable to hear him in the next room.

As I sat listening to Walter on a dark wooden bench, José’s boys chased one another down the empty hallway and I wondered how the wide corridors of the courthouse must seem to them as they slid across the waxed floors. Watching them, I realized that I had little understanding of the place myself. I thought of the countless documents I had filled out during my years in the Border Patrol—voluntary return papers, expedited removal forms, reinstatements of prior deportation orders—documents sorted through by clerks and attorneys and judges, documents that followed the accused as they were shuttled across the state from one holding cell to the next. I realized, too, that despite my small role within the system, despite hours of training and studying at the academy, I had little inkling of what happened to those I arrested after I turned over their paperwork and went home from my shift.

For several minutes, Walter and I sat next to each other in silence. My mind had filled with questions, but I was wary of seeming too curious, wary that Walter might sense my old allegiance to the agency that was so often positioned against him. I asked sheepishly if he could explain to me why he had asked for the continuance. He thought about how best to explain. Well, he began, I’ll start with the basics. There’s criminal law and civil law, you probably know that. Charges related to illegal border crossing are criminal charges—so last week’s hearing and this week’s follow-up are both criminal proceedings. But citizenship and immigration fall under the umbrella of civil law. I nodded, remembering my tests at the academy. Walter went on. You’ve got to understand that most undocumented border crossers don’t have any claim to citizenship or immigration status. But José’s got family here, his kids are citizens. That’s why I interjected during the Streamline hearing last week and asked the judge to delay José’s sentencing. I hoped a continuance would give him some time to find an actual immigration lawyer, to see if they can put together a claim to be heard in civil court. They found someone, I said, the owner of the mercado is friends with a good lawyer. That’s lucky, he said. Who is it? Elizabeth Green, I told him. Well, he replied, that’s very lucky. Elizabeth has a great reputation. He glanced down the hallway at Vicente, José’s youngest boy. I think she just had a baby, he added.

Walter turned back to me. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen today, he said. Mr. Martínez will still have to plead guilty to the misdemeanor crime of illegal entry, like everyone you saw last week. In turn, the government will offer him the same deal as before—dismissing the felony charge of reentry and sentencing him to thirty days in prison. Then, boom, José is done with the criminal charges. That’s when things change. Instead of being immediately deported after fulfilling his sentence, José will then get kicked over into an immigration proceeding—the civil case. Elizabeth will be the one handling all that. The family will meet with her in the meantime and they’ll put together an argument. I don’t know much about the intricacies of immigration law, except that it’s not free. You don’t get a public defender like me. You gotta pay to play.

Walter gazed down the hallway at José’s boys. You know, he said, it’s difficult to see a man’s life torn apart. A lot of people in the immigration system lose sight of people’s humanity. I see it every day here. He gestured at the air all around him. The Border Patrol agents, the marshals I see here day in and day out, they objectify these people all the time. I clenched my jaw, not wanting to reveal myself.

I know a guy who works here, I told him. Oh yeah? he asked. What’s his name? Morales. Shit, Walter said, I know Morales. He paused. I don’t want to say anything bad about your buddy, but that Morales is a very serious guy. He’s always seemed a bit callous to me. Yanking on people, pushing their chairs around, stuff like that. I looked at Walter and held my tongue.

You know, he said, as a public defender I’ve represented all sorts of people. I’ve even represented Border Patrol agents. One of my clients was framed by his own colleagues in the patrol because he was too human, because he showed too much compassion in the line of duty. The other agents didn’t like him because he didn’t play along with them, you know? He carried an injured woman on his back through the desert and the other agents started thinking he was soft, they didn’t trust him, didn’t like working with him, so they set the guy up. They framed him for brutality. They made it look like he had beaten someone up in the field. Isn’t that twisted? I nodded. I tell you, Walter said, the Border Patrol, the marshals, it’s like they forget about kindness. I’ve almost never seen these guys express any humanity, any emotion. I don’t know how they do it. How do you come home to your kids at night when you spend your day treating other humans like dogs?

—

José, dressed in bright prisoner orange, listened intently through a headset as the judge spoke to him.

I understand that you intend to plead guilty to the petty offense of illegal entry at a place other than one designated for entry by U.S. Immigration. In exchange for your plea, the government has agreed to dismiss the felony offense of reentry after removal.

This time José was the lone defendant in a modest-sized courtroom with few other occupants. Walter sat next to him and along the wall sat two U.S. marshals, both in dark suits, one of them tall with an angry pockmarked face, his gaze alternating intently between José and his boys. In a booth beside the judge’s bench, a dark-skinned interpreter spoke hushed Spanish into a headset.

You must understand, the judge continued, that in the future this charge will always be used against you, that if you are arrested attempting to reenter the country, you could serve years in prison, not days or months. Next to me, José Junior drew a stick figure on the outside of an envelope. Look, he whispered to me, it’s my brother.

Mr. Martínez, said the judge, are you a citizen of Mexico? Sí. On or about September 1, 2015, did you enter the United States near Yuma, Arizona? Sí. Did you come through a designated port of entry? No, señor. How do you plead in the charge of illegal entry? Culpable, señor.

—

After the hearing, Walter and I sat again on a long bench outside the courtroom while the boys loped around the hallway, then disappeared. The sounds of their hollow yelling echoed out from the bathroom. You know, Walter told me, if Mr. Martínez hadn’t left the country to see his dying mother, he would have been protected by the executive orders issued by President Obama. The orders granted provisional status and deferred deportation to noncriminal parents of U.S. citizens. José would have been home free. At the end of the hallway José’s boys became visible again and I called out to Diego, the oldest. The other boys followed, pushing and circling each other behind him. What’s with the yelling in the bathroom? I asked. I don’t know, Diego said, we were just yelling. Because of the echo.

Suddenly, the doors to the courtroom opened in front of us and the tall man with the pockmarked face came striding out. He walked slowly over to the boys, now sitting at the far end of the bench. He stood craning over them and looked each of them in the face. Was that your dad in there? he asked. Yeah, Diego said meekly. Well, the man said, pausing for a moment—I’m sorry about your dad. Sometimes I feel pretty bad for you guys. He peered down at his chest and unfastened a small lapel pin with his massive hands. He grasped the pin in his fingers and stretched his arm out to Diego like a pilot offering his wings to a small boy. Diego took the pin and the man turned and walked back into the courtroom as Diego contemplated the object in his palm.

That’s interesting, said Walter. I see that man in here all the time. I’ve never once seen him express any emotion. He shook his head. That’s the first attempt at kindness I’ve ever witnessed here. I raised my eyebrows at him. Some people have more compassion than they let on, I told him.

Later, as I left the courtroom with the boys, I asked Diego if I could see the pin. He continued walking forward without stopping. Show it to him, said José Junior, the middle brother. He nudged Diego’s shoulder. Reluctantly, Diego reached into his pocket. He clutched the pin in his fist, as if it had become something precious to him, then dropped it into my hand. The pin was heavy, made of real brass. It was a small star ringed by the words “United States Marshal.” A tiny badge.

—

Growing up, my mother tells me, she always felt ashamed to be Mexican. Her midwestern mother came from German and Irish roots, and her parents separated before she could form any memory of her father. Her mother, despite having fallen in love with a Mexican man, despite living in southwestern towns rich with Mexican heritage, despite being surrounded by Mexican coworkers and neighbors, nevertheless carried with her a certain attitude about Mexicans. As a child, my mother was told that she was messy, that she lied, that she was lazy, all because she was Mexican. If she found herself moved by ambition, if she felt driven by a sense of purpose, she was told it was her Irish work ethic, her exacting German focus. Even as she grew older, she found herself filled with shame whenever she procrastinated, whenever she felt the urge to put things off, as if she were battling an insidious and inferior lineage within.

Her mother had given her a single picture of her father. In the picture he was young and handsome, his face turned sideways to the camera, his eyes dark and squinting as he stared into the distance. He wore the traditional dress of a Mexican charro with a broad sombrero and a moño tied loosely around his neck. He held his left hand in front of his chin with his palm turned toward the sky and a cigarette hanging between his curled forefingers, a cone of ash ready to fall from the tip.

My mother would stare at this photo and swell with love for her father, imagining him as adventurous and dashing, mysterious and strong. She fantasized about meeting him. Finally, the summer she turned seventeen, she drove to his home in San Diego. She wore her most expensive shoes and her finest Mexican dress, white and brown gingham frilled with dark lace. Standing on his doorstep, she could hardly contain herself. Her father was a legend. She knocked at the door and waited to be greeted by a tall and elegantly dressed caballero. When the door finally opened, she beheld a short man in a white T-shirt, bald and grinning, a soft belly protruding from well-worn pleated pants.

My young mother came to find that her father was a man bound by family and tradition, a man who lived mere miles from his brothers and sisters, who spent his days indoors sorting mail for the postal service, who rarely ventured far from home, a man who, as she saw it, never took any risks. She found herself, after years of anticipation, ashamed of her father—ashamed, still, to be Mexican.

It wasn’t until later, as a young adult, living and working in national parks, that she saw how a tradition of staying could serve to root people in a culture, to anchor them in a landscape. In the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, in the farms and ranches of West Texas, in the canyonlands of the Colorado plateau, she saw how people loved and were shaped by the land. Finally, she traveled to the Coronado National Memorial on the border of Arizona and Sonora. She became friends with the superintendent of the park, a Mexican man proud of his heritage, born a citizen of both nations. For years he had worked in Mexico as a school principal. But in the Coronado Memorial, a place that marked the passage of Francisco Vásquez de Coronado across the lands that would come to hold a torrid boundary line—a place that commemorated the inception of a violent and unceasing exchange of cultures—he saw a place of international significance, a place that told his story.

My mother soon confided in the man, and he became the first person she ever told about her lifelong shame of being Mexican. The man smiled at her. That’s how it works, he told her. The first generation struggles to leave, to come into a new country, to gain acceptance in a new culture. Often they arrive and find themselves ostracized, they settle in pockets, they do everything they can just to get a toehold. Whether or not they learn English themselves, they know that their children must speak it. Sometimes they go so far as to discourage their children from speaking their own language—they want them to get into good schools, to identify with their new culture, to be accepted by it in all the ways they were not. The man looked knowingly at my mother as he explained. This second generation, he continued, might find themselves at great distance from the culture of their parents. Perhaps somewhere along the way they are told to put the old culture behind them, and so they find it within themselves to reject it.

As the second generation forms their own identity, he went on, it is more often built within the new culture rather than the old. By the time they have their own children, it usually turns out that this third generation is almost totally accepted. They have it easy—the culture of their grandparents’ adopted country defines them wholly. However, he added, when they arrive at adulthood, they often begin to look around for something that makes them unique. And it’s then that they begin to search for an inheritance, to look back for the traditions that make them special, and often they realize it isn’t there. They realize something has been lost along the way.

My mother tells me that when I was born, she remembered the words of this man, she remembered all the ways she had grown up alienated from her own identity. I didn’t want that for my son, she tells me. I wanted you to feel pride, to find strength in your heritage.

—

Outside the law offices of Elizabeth Green, I sat in my truck, wondering what I was doing, what role I was playing, what protocols I had followed to arrive there. I sat with the engine idling, slowly shaking my head as I listened to the radio. It’s simple, I finally told myself. This is what friends do.

Inside, a receptionist directed me to a conference room upstairs. I entered to find Elizabeth and Diane already seated across the table from each other, chatting about Elizabeth’s newborn. I greeted Diane and introduced myself to Elizabeth. I work for Diane, I told her, I’m a friend of José’s. Diane leaned over to Elizabeth. He can speak Spanish, she said. He’s been a big help to the family. How nice, Elizabeth said. I took a seat near the end of the table beside a long window overlooking the mountains to the west. I listened to the women and eyed the clock. Lupe was late. It’s hard to sleep at night, Elizabeth was telling Diane, I hear him crying out for me in the next room. It’s almost like I can hear him breathing through the walls.

My phone rang. Lupe had arrived and needed help finding the office. I excused myself to go outside. In the parking lot I found her walking with the pastor. I greeted them both. Nice to see you again, I told the pastor, how good of you to come.

Upstairs Elizabeth greeted everyone and invited us to sit down. She began in Spanish, speaking directly to Lupe in slow, deliberate sentences. Unfortunately, she said, José’s situation is not rare. She looked around the room. But it is rare to see so many people here for one case. Usually only the immediate family comes to a meeting like this. Elizabeth looked at Lupe and then gestured at me, Diane, and the pastor. José must have made quite an impression on you all, she said. Lupe watched us with her hands gathered in her lap. Elizabeth went on. I want to talk with you today about José so we can find the best strategy to keep him here. We are going to do everything we can, she told Lupe. Elizabeth placed a hand on the table and repeated her words. Todo lo posible.

Elizabeth switched into English and glanced at me. Do you mind translating? she asked. No, I said, of course not. I want to make a few things clear, she began, I want to temper expectations right off the bat. This case is going to be hard, not impossible, but hard. She looked across the table at Diane. I also want to be clear that even if José is able to stay, it is unlikely that he’ll be able to come back to work for you, because at this point, of course, you are no longer ignorant of his undocumented status. Diane shook her head. It’s a shame—José was such a great employee, such a sweet man. Well, Elizabeth said, it’s rare to see an employer invested in someone enough to come to these meetings, rare for them to support someone’s case against deportation. Diane shrugged. I really thought he had everything in order, she said. At first we hired him on as an independent contractor. He filled out all his paperwork, had a social security number, and at the end of each year we gave him a 1099. It never occurred to me that even after months and years of working with us he never asked to be put on payroll, never asked for benefits. Maybe he wanted to keep things vague to protect himself, to protect us from knowing his status. Diane looked around the table. I just never thought about it.

Elizabeth leaned on the table. Given what you knew, she said to Diane, there’s legally nothing wrong with what you did. But I want you to know that even in the best-case scenario, José has no chance of being granted legal status. I want to be clear here, to you, but most of all to Lupe, that what we are asking for in this case is not legalization. Under existing law, José doesn’t really have a path to legal status until his oldest son turns eighteen and can sponsor his mother and father for citizenship. And because José has a prior deportation on his record from 1996, we don’t have a lot of options.

Elizabeth turned to Lupe. I want to ask you a few questions to start off, she said. She glanced at me and I began to translate. First of all, besides his past deportation, has José ever been in trouble with the law? Lupe shook her head. No, she said, never. She looked over at the pastor. José used to drink, she admitted quietly. The pastor bowed his head. But he never got into any trouble, Lupe said, gracias a Dios. Ever since our first son was born he hasn’t had a single drink. Good, Elizabeth said. This next question might be hard for you to answer, she continued, but it’s an important one. Have you, José, or the boys ever been the victims of a violent crime here in the U.S.? Lupe looked down at her hands still clasped in her lap. No, she said. La verdad es que no.

So, Elizabeth concluded, that leaves us with two options. The first is for José to claim fear of returning to Mexico. In that case he would be held for a screening interview to see if he is eligible for something like asylum. He would remain in immigration custody for at least six months prior to being released on bond.

I’m sorry, Lupe said, what does that mean exactly? She looked at Elizabeth. Fear of returning to Mexico? Of course he has fear. La violencia, she said, la delincuencia, la corrupción. Elizabeth began to tap a pencil against her legal pad. Of course, she said, I’m sorry. What I mean by fear is something more specific. If José has received death threats, for example, from a drug cartel or some other group. If he’s part of an ethnic or political minority that is being targeted somewhere. Land disputes, blood feuds between or among families, things like this.

Lupe clutched her hands in her lap and looked down, shaking her head. No, she said, nothing like that. Elizabeth rested her pencil at the top of her pad. Well, she said, I’ll visit José in the detention center and talk with him just to be sure. But to be clear, the ultimate goal of an asylum application wouldn’t really be to win. Almost no one wins asylum from Mexico, only about one percent of Mexican cases are actually granted asylum. But the process buys time, and the application would bolster a request for a stay of removal. As I translated Elizabeth’s words Lupe stared at me, expressionless.

So, Elizabeth went on, that brings us to our second option, which is to ask for a deferred deportation under the executive actions that, for the time being, protect certain undocumented immigrants such as noncriminal parents of U.S. citizens. The problem, of course, is that José has a prior deportation from 1996, and on top of that, his most recent exit and illegal reentry into the country. That means he’s now considered a “recent entrant,” and recent entrants are a priority for deportation even under these executive actions. So what we need to do is try to make a great case for prosecutorial discretion. Basically, that means we would present to a judge all the compelling reasons that José should still be granted a stay of removal despite his recent entry. The goal here is to get José out of detention and, essentially, to buy time with the appeals process and hope for better policy and eventual immigration reform down the line. José would still have no work permit, he’d still be living in the shadows, but he’d be protected, he could remain there safely, if that makes any sense.

Elizabeth shifted her gaze around the room, looking in turn at Diane, Lupe, the pastor, and me. So, she began again, here’s what I will need from all of you: From you, Lupe, any and all documentation that establishes how long José has lived and worked in the States. Pay stubs and any tax information that proves employment, rental or lease agreements, utility contracts, anything else that establishes proof of continual residence. How long has José been in the U.S.? Lupe thought for a moment. More than thirty years, she answered.

Elizabeth seemed surprised. Well, she said, if you can produce documents that establish a continual presence here for more than thirty years, that will be very good for his application. Also, she continued, we’ll need any legal documents you can produce regarding your children: birth certificates, report cards, health records. Health records are important. Do your boys have any health issues? Lupe looked toward her pastor and then over at me. My youngest son Vicente has a problem with his brain. He has problems speaking. She looked down at the floor. José Junior has asthma. He was hit by a car, too, she said, a year and a half ago. He still has a limp. And Diego, my oldest, has meningitis. I’m sorry to hear that, Elizabeth told her. Documentation of all of this will be very important for the application—any evidence you can give of their medical conditions will help the case.

Elizabeth turned toward me, Diane, and the pastor. Another thing that will help José’s case are testimonies to his good character, she said. Letters from current and past employers, landlords, neighbors, churchgoers, and family members, particularly those with legal status. The more the better. Any evidence of community service he’s taken part in as a church member or in any other capacity would also help. The author should be sure to state how many years they’ve known José, in what capacity they’ve known him, and why they support him—moral character, work ethic, et cetera. Examples are good, and the author should list specific things José has done that have impressed them or demonstrated that José is someone special or unique. If the author is familiar with the hardships his removal would place upon the family, that should be included in the letter as well. As Elizabeth spoke I gazed out the window to the mountains, wondering how such hardships could be put into words.

There’s one last thing I’ll need to get started, Elizabeth stated, and that’s half the money to pay for our legal fees. Two thousand dollars of the four thousand total. We’ll pay for half, Diane said, my husband and I have already decided. Lupe’s eyes widened, catching the glare from the sunlight filtering in through the windows. The pastor leaned forward in his chair and placed his arms on the table. The church will help Lupe to pay the other half, he said. Elizabeth smiled. Fantastic, she said. Lupe looked around the room, unsure of what to say or how to react.

Are there any questions? Elizabeth asked us. Diane held her hand up near her face. Maybe it’s a bad time to ask, she said, but what happens if José’s case is denied? Well, Elizabeth said, he’ll be sent back to Mexico, of course, and that will happen quickly, right after the deportation order is issued. Sometimes we don’t find out until after the decision has been made, after the person has already been deported. Immigration decisions don’t happen in a courtroom, so we won’t be arguing our case before a judge. We submit the documents and the decision is made behind closed doors.

If José is deported, the charge will appear on his record, of course, and that will make it harder for him when and if he tries to legalize down the line. With this deportation he’ll receive a five-year ban on reentry. Diane sighed. And if he tries to cross again? she asked. Elizabeth picked up her pencil. He’ll serve more jail time each time he’s picked up, she said. Instead of thirty days, next time it will probably be sixty, then ninety. And he’ll be banned from reentry for ten years, then twenty, and so on.

Elizabeth looked at Lupe and then eyed me to make sure I was ready to translate again. I want to be sure that you know where your husband is, she said. He’ll be at the state detention center for the duration of the thirty-day sentence he was issued at the criminal hearing. Lupe nodded at me and then at Elizabeth. After that, Elizabeth said, if José’s case is still under consideration, which it probably will be, he’ll be placed in the nearby immigration detention center. Elizabeth scrawled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Lupe. This is his inmate number, she said, you’ll need it if you have any dealings with the prison. Elizabeth tapped the pencil against her legal pad. Do you have questions? she asked. Just one, Lupe said. Can the boys see their father? Elizabeth sat back in her chair. Well, she said, yes—the detention center allows visitation. She rested her pencil back on the table. But they check papers there, so it wouldn’t be safe for you to go. You’d have to find someone else to take the boys.

—

I drove through the trailer park in the early morning, before the sun was up, looking for José’s home. I finally found it—a doublewide with two doors in a dirt lot next to a dumpster. The lights were off and I knocked at each of the doors. After several minutes of waiting I knocked louder until I finally heard rustling inside and saw a light come on. Lupe opened the door and smiled weakly, her face heavy with sleep. Diego’s getting ready, she said, he’ll be out in a few minutes. Is it just him? I asked. Yes, she said, the little ones should rest.

In the car Diego was silent. Did you already eat? I asked. Not really, he said. We stopped at a McDonald’s and I ordered a sausage McMuffin and Diego ordered two sausage breakfast burritos. As we waited to pull up to the window, he handed me money. It’s okay, I told him, I’ll pay. No, he said, my mom gave me this money. She’d be mad if you paid. Okay, I told him, okay. I smiled. Thanks for breakfast.

You know, I said as he unwrapped his first burrito, your dad used to eat a breakfast burrito every morning at work. He would always give me half. I stared out at the road and took a bite of my sandwich. I asked Diego about school, about what he did for fun. I like soccer, he said. Oh, yeah? I asked. What’s your favorite club? I don’t really have one, he said, I just like to play. I play in the park with my brothers. My dad used to take us. I’m on a team from church too. He took another bite from his burrito. What position do you play? I asked. I’m a striker, he said, I’m the one that makes the goals.

After nearly an hour of driving, the sun finally rose above the horizon and cast its first rays upon the desert flatlands and fields dormant with crops. We slowed as we began to pass buildings and houses and we soon made out the prison complexes towering in the distance. We drove through quiet streets past a high school, a trading post, an Italian restaurant, until we finally arrived at the massive detention center at the opposite edge of town. Outside, a guard in a white truck was checking vehicles at the entrance to the parking lot. I rolled down my window. We’re here for visitation, I told him. What cell block? I read him the information I had taken down. That block doesn’t have visitation until nine, he said. Really? I asked. But online it said— The guard cut me off. Nine a.m., he repeated. I looked at Diego and then back at the guard. Is there somewhere we can wait? I asked. I could feel him glaring at me through his sunglasses. There’s a diner in town, he said. You can wait there.

It was nearly seven when we pulled into the diner parking lot. Diego and I sat in a booth by the window and stared out in silence as the amber light of the sun spilled across the asphalt. A waitress sauntered over with two menus and a pitcher of water. Good morning, she said, I’ll bet you boys are hungry. I looked up at her and smiled. To tell you the truth, I said, we already ate. We’re waiting for visitation at the prison. You must get that a lot. Sometimes, she said. Well, I continued, is it all right if we nurse some coffee and order something small? She smiled and nodded toward the only other customer, a stout man in a cowboy hat bantering at the counter with another waitress. Any business is good business, she said.

The waitress took our menus and left and we stared again out the window. Do your parents let you drink coffee? I asked Diego. Yeah, he said, but I don’t really like how it tastes. Your dad drinks it with vanilla and cream, I told him. I turned my head and looked across the table at him, small and slumped against the back of the booth. Oh, he said. I didn’t know. I never saw my dad in the mornings.

Two hours later, back at the entrance to the prison, the guard in the white truck stuck his hand out the window as we approached. I rolled down the window. Visitation is closed. It’s nine a.m., I said, what do you mean? There’s a riot in cell block E. Visitation is closed. I looked at Diego and then back at the guard. For how long? I asked. The man shrugged. How am I supposed to know? Until they stop rioting.

—

I arranged to meet Lupe in the mercado at the end of my shift. I had offered to help her sort through documents and deliver them to Elizabeth’s law firm. She was seated at a small table with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She smiled as I approached, standing to greet me with timid familiarity. As we sat down, she slung a large woven bag into her lap and pulled out a thick stack of papers loosely gathered in a manila folder. I briefly scanned through them. There were documents from 1981, from 1990, from 1993, 1994, 1997, 2002, 2003, 2005, 2009, 2012, 2015, there were José’s old ID cards, pay stubs and W-2s, insurance forms, rental agreements, utility bills, medical records, statements of payment and credit history—everything stacked together in no particular order, a bulging dossier on a life lived at the workaday margins of a country now set in motion against him.

I left the documents with Lupe and asked her to excuse me for a minute. I walked across the courtyard and knocked on the open door to Diane’s office. Come in, I heard her say. Lupe’s here, I said, and she’s got a lot of documents. Good, Diane replied. Actually, I said, they’re kind of a mess. Is there a big table somewhere where we can lay them out and organize things? Of course. Diane led me down the hall to a conference room. It’s free until later this afternoon, she told me. Do you need anything else? Maybe some markers and a set of folders, I said. There’s office supplies in the next room, she offered. Take whatever you need.

For the next two hours, Lupe and I stood at the conference table sorting through piles of papers, some of them faded and yellowing: documents providing evidence of José’s entry into the United States at age eleven and the work he had been engaged in every year thereafter, earning minimum wage as a dishwasher, a busboy, a custodian, an auto repairman, a maintenance man, a farmworker, a fruit picker, an agricultural equipment operator, a carpet mill factory worker, a truck driver, a construction hand; documents providing certification of his marriage, certification of the birth of each of his three sons, certification of his mother’s death; documents providing evidence of the growing lives of his children, children who visited the school nurse and the local health clinic, children who received brain scans, behavioral health reports, cognitive speech and language therapy, children who received report cards and teacher’s notes, children who were being shaped by the twin identities of immigrant and citizen.

As Lupe and I sorted through the documents, I labeled distinct folders and placed each document in its corresponding place. WORK, I scrawled on one folder, RESIDENCE on another. I labeled one folder DEPENDENTS and placed a folder for each child inside it, and within each of these, separate folders labeled SCHOOL, MEDICAL, and PROOF OF CITIZENSHIP. I saw ID photos of José as a young man with feathered black hair, his skin dark and glaring with the light from the flashbulb. I saw ID photos of his sons, their faces round with baby fat, and I saw the prints of their newborn hands and feet inked on the hospital documents that certified their birth. I saw his and Lupe’s signatures, over and over again, printed simply in block letters on form after form, year after year.

When we finally finished, I walked with Lupe back across the courtyard. As we said our goodbyes, a woman named Ana, a worker at the Mexican bakery, stepped into the courtyard to greet Lupe. She asked about José, about the boys, about the stack of documents in my hands. They’re for José’s case, Lupe said, he’s taking them to the lawyer. Ana smiled at me. It’s so nice of you to help the family, she said. She touched me on the shoulder and looked at Lupe, lowering her voice. It’s hard to imagine that he was la migra, isn’t it? Oh really? Lupe asked, her eyes widening in surprise. José didn’t tell you? No, she said, elongating the word. That’s right, continued Ana—he saw what we go through at the border, and look, now he’s helping. I smiled and nodded, wondering if that’s what this really was, if I was merely being driven to make good for the lives I had sent back across the line, if I was seeking to dole out some paltry reparation. If I was seeking redemption, I wondered, what would redemption look like?

—

Lupe came to the door after my first knock. Good morning. She smiled. It’s not so early this time, she said. She disappeared into the house and I could hear her calling after Diego. She came back to the door with papers in her hand. Disculpa, she said, but would you mind if José Junior came too? Last time he was so sad not to go. Cómo no, I said. I gestured at the documents in her hand. Are those his papers? Yes, she said, handing them over. Diego walked up behind his mother and stood beside her in the doorway. You’re almost as tall as your mom, I said. He stood up straight and smiled. Actually, he said, I’m taller. His mother swiped at him playfully. I’m almost as tall as my dad, he said proudly.

As we drove north toward the detention center, Diego looked at his phone and José Junior played a game of soccer on an iPod Touch in the backseat, pumping his hand in the air each time he scored a goal and then passing the device up to his brother, insisting he watch each computer-generated replay. After about ten minutes, Diego became bored with his phone and turned around in his seat. Let me play, he said to José Junior. But you have your phone, his brother whined. I know, Diego replied, but it doesn’t have soccer.

José Junior surrendered the iPod and looked around the inside of the vehicle. I hope we get back before school’s out, he said. I turned and looked at him. He was clutching the shoulder strap of his seat belt. Why? I thought most kids loved to skip school. Not me, he said. I like school. Yesterday my teacher said she was going to give us treats at the end of the day today. We even voted on what kind of cupcakes we like. Diego thrust his arm up in the seat next to me. GOL! he shouted. He turned to his brother. Look, Diego said, showing his brother the replay—I’m going to score a goal just like this on Saturday.

After several minutes, José Junior leaned toward Diego from the backseat and touched him on the shoulder. Look, he said, it’s floating. Diego put down the iPod. What are you talking about? That thing on the side of the road, José Junior said, if you stare at it, it looks like it’s floating. Diego looked out his window at the passing road. I don’t get it, he said, what do you mean? The bar, José Junior said. I turned and looked out the window at the guardrail running along the shoulder of the highway. When I stared at it straight on, the wooden posts holding it up blurred together as they sped past, giving the illusion of a steel barrier hovering above the ground. You mean the guardrail? I asked. José Junior smiled at me. Yeah, he said. It’s floating.

At the detention center I reminded the boys to leave everything in the car. Phones, iPods, wallets, even your belts, I said. We followed another visitor across the lot toward a gate in the towering two-tiered fence topped with coils of concertina wire. After five of us had gathered in front of the gate, it slowly wheeled open by remote and we passed through into the sally port, waiting patiently for it to close again behind us. Above me, I heard the call of a mourning dove lilting up from somewhere on the roof of the prison. The wind blew gently against the wires, jostling the arms of a bumpy and bare-skinned cactus beside the walkway. José Junior nudged Diego. It sounds like our mom is talking to us. I looked at the chain-link fence trembling with the gusts of cool air. You mean the wind, I asked him, or the birds? José Junior thought for a second. All of it, he said.

José Junior held his hand up to his face to block the sun and looked toward the door of the prison. I feel like I’ve been here before, he said to me. Really? I asked. Yeah, like maybe in a dream. He walked to the cactus at the end of the walkway and I noticed, for the first time, a slight limp in his gait. He looked up at the fence, and his baggy T-shirt, a hand-me-down from one of his brothers, rippled in the wind.

The gate finally closed behind us with a metallic crash and a guard opened the door to the prison. I watched the two women in front of us make their way through the line. Following their example, I took a sheet of paper from a countertop and filled out José’s name, inmate number, and cell block. When it was my turn at the window I handed the paper to the guard. He typed at his computer and chewed at a bushy white mustache. Martínez-Cruz? he finally asked. Yes sir, I said. What’s your relation? I’m a friend, I replied, and these are his boys. Are you their guardian? For the day, I said. I handed him a notarized letter from Lupe. Do you have their papers? he asked. Yes sir, I said, handing him the boys’ birth certificates. The man typed some more and then instructed us to empty our pockets and pass through the metal detector into the waiting room.

The boys sat next to one another in hard plastic seats. Diego fidgeted with his hands and José Junior swung his legs back and forth. The two women who came in before us sat across from each other in facing chairs. I like your shoes, one woman said to the other, are they Vans? Coach, she answered. Oh. The woman looked down at her legs and wiggled her feet. I just got these at Dollar General. That works too, the other woman said. They’re kind of cute. After a few more minutes, the woman with Coach shoes asked the other if she had visited the prison before. One other time, the woman answered, on a Sunday. It was busy, she said, shaking her head. I think weekdays are the way to go. I looked back at the boys. José Junior sat holding his face in his hands.

To pass the time I began to walk around the room, gazing at the posters on the wall from the Corrections Corporation of America. “Zero Tolerance Suicide Prevention,” said one, “Be a hero, keep it at zero.” “Opportunity is knocking,” said another, “CCA is currently accepting applications.” Another poster depicted a smiling black man: “I believe everybody needs a little fun in their life. I am Terry Williams Jr., a Senior Corrections Officer in Tennessee. I am CCA.” Next to it, another showed an older white woman beaming with pride: “My name is Mary Bowermaster. I am a shift supervisor in Florida and I believe you should never stop learning. I am CCA.” And another: “I get to teach people how to live better lives. I am Jason Russel, a nurse and a woodworker in Mississippi. I am CCA.” I stood before the photographed faces and thought about the kinship I shared with them—the badge, the gun, the wrangling of human beings, the slow severing of spirit. In the distance, jangling keys began to echo through the room and I turned my head to hear the calling of the guards.

We were given sheets of paper and instructed to walk back to our cars and drive around the building to another entrance. I’m confused, I said to a guard, I thought this was visitation. This is check-in, the guard said, visitation is on the other side. Back in the car, I followed the woman with Coach shoes as she drove around the building to make sure I arrived at the right entrance. I ushered the boys out of the car once again and joined the two women in front of another entrance, where we waited for another gate to open. Diego shuffled his feet and José Junior stood looking again at the top of the fence. I really don’t know why I have the feeling I’ve been here before, he said. He looked down at the ground. I can’t handle the pressure, José Junior mumbled to himself. What do you mean? I asked. I don’t know if I can handle talking to my dad. I looked to Diego and then back at his brother. Why not? José Junior sighed. Because he’s in jail.

We were finally let in through the prison doors by the same mustachioed guard who had taken our documents at check-in. He took the sheets of paper we had been given and instructed us to pass once again through a metal detector. We were led down a hallway and made to wait for several minutes while the guard chatted with a coworker who had just finished his shift. I’ll catch you in D block tomorrow, the guard said. Hell no you won’t, his coworker replied, I’ve got the day off. I’m taking the wife and kids to the ballpark. Well, the guard scoffed, look at you.

The guard led us to a doorway and stopped to give us instructions before letting us through. You’ll have forty-five minutes to visit, he said, and I’ll give a ten-minute warning before time is up. You’ll be using the phones mounted on the wall next to the window, he continued, each prisoner has a code to dial out. Wait until the phone rings before you pick it up or else you won’t have a connection. Plastic chairs are stacked against the back wall to the right, grab one as you enter the room and stack them back where you got them on your way out. As the guard spoke, I noticed that he looked only at the women and me, that he never lowered his gaze to regard the boys.

When he opened the door I stood behind the boys and ushered them forward. The inside of the visitation room was brightly lit with cinderblock walls painted in pale tan. The two women were first through the door and walked directly to the stack of plastic chairs. The guard closed the door behind us and then walked to a desk in the corner of the room and took a seat behind a computer monitor. The boys stood unmoving just a few feet beyond the entrance, staring at their father as he waved from behind a reinforced glass window. He smiled widely at them, standing on his feet, swaying from side to side. I kneeled down to speak to the boys. Go ahead, I told them, I’ll bring the chairs.

When I walked up to the window, José Junior had already taken up the receiver and was speaking with his father. José’s head and face were shaved and he looked strong again, like he had regained the weight he’d lost in the desert. José Junior remained standing at the window even after I placed a chair behind him. He spoke eagerly with his father about school, about his friends at church. He told his father that he missed him, that it was sad at the house without him.

Behind us, the guard stood up from his computer and placed something in a microwave on a countertop next to the desk. The beeping of the keypad rang out through the room and I watched the man chew at his mustache as he stood waiting for his meal. On either side of me, I observed the women speaking to men clad in orange, their faces held close against the glass. This is love, one woman said into the receiver. Things are the same out here, the other woman said softly. Everything is the same.

I looked back at José and watched the way he tilted his head as he gazed through the glass, the way he smiled as he listened to his son. I watched the motion of his mouth, the way he spoke and laughed. It was like watching a man on mute, I thought, a man who, despite his proximity, would not be heard even if he was crying out on the other side of the glass, even if he was screaming.

After ten minutes or so, José Junior handed the phone to Diego. José smiled warmly as his oldest son told him about soccer, about playing with his brothers in the park. His face grew more serious as Diego spoke with him about his grades, about his youngest brother’s health, about what he was doing to help Lupe around the house. At times José stared down at the ground, closing his eyes and rubbing his brow. Mom is working a lot more, Diego told him, she gets annoyed with us sometimes. But she’s fine, he said, she’s just tired.

Diego set the phone down on the ledge beneath the window. My dad wants to talk to you, he told me. Oh, I said. Sure. I stood and grabbed my chair, moving it closer to the window. I picked up the handset. Paco, José said to me, smiling. His voice sounded tinny and distant in the receiver. I smiled back. José. Brother.

—

Lupe came by the coffee shop in the morning on her way back from dropping the boys at school and delivered a packet of letters she had collected from family, friends, neighbors, former employers, and fellow church members. I had arranged to deliver them to the law firm as soon as my shift was over. She handed me the envelope and smiled timidly. I noticed a tinge of apprehension in her gaze, as if she was still trying to comprehend the image of me as a lawman, trying to discern in me an old shadow of darkness. It’s been so good of you to help us, she said. I shook my head. It’s nothing. José is a friend. I looked away. Lupe glanced toward the door. I’ve got to get ready for work, she told me, I’m picking up shifts at the restaurant where José used to work. Qué bien, I said. Estamos en contacto. She waved goodbye and walked across the courtyard to her car.

At the end of my shift, I drove to Elizabeth’s office and sat with my engine running in the parking lot. I opened the envelope that contained José’s letters and began to flip through them. Some were typed, but most were handwritten, many of them in Spanish. They all began with some variation of “To Whom It May Concern.” They referred to José as a brother in Christ, a family man, a good father, a responsible husband, a reliable person, always working hard, always giving his best, always offering to help with a smile on his face, always laughing.

To whom this may concern, began one letter: My name is Brenda Collar, I have lived in the United States of America for over twenty-five years, and am now a proud US citizen. I have known my fellow friend and brother José for over three years approximately. We congregate at the same church and we both serve in the ushers department. José Martínez has always been such a joy to be around. He is a responsible and caring father which is projected from his three young sons. José Martínez is a hardworking man who has never left a task uncompleted. It would be a mistake to let such a hard worker, responsible father, and awesome friend go. Please consider my testimony and if there are further questions feel free to contact me.

Another man from José’s church wrote: José is a good father, a good husband and a good employee. He is a good example of a good citizen. He always helps people instead of looking for help.

Many friends and family members made an effort to write their letters in a way that echoed the language of official documents: I, Leticia Martínez, declare under penalty of perjury that the following statement is true and correct to the best of my knowledge and recollection. To Whom It May Concern, I’m Leticia Martínez I’m José’s niece he has been living in this country for many years, he is a very nice person he does not drink or smoke or use any drugs. He is a very responsible and hardworking person I wish that he had a chance to let him stay with his children in this country. Thanks for taking the time to read this letter.

To whom it may concern, wrote another man: In the matter of allowing José Martínez to stay in the United States of America. I Pablo G. Martínez believe José M. should be allowed to stay in the country for the following reasons. He is a hardworking man that holds down two jobs. He is the head of household, without him his family would struggle very much both financially and emotionally. He has three little boys who need their father in their lives. He is one of the most respectable people I know and should definitely be allowed to stay in this great country.

Lupe wrote in Spanish on lined school paper borrowed from her children: I Lupe Balderas declare that José Martínez-Cruz is my husband since the year 1999. We have 3 boys age 15, 10, and 8. We were always a very exemplary family we would go out when my husband was off work. He was the only one who worked. He had two jobs and his free time was dedicated to us. My husband is an exemplary father and a caring spouse. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t use drugs he only dedicates himself to making his family happy but now we miss him very much because I Lupe cannot take my boys to the park because lately I have been unwell. My husband took my boys to play soccer every Wednesday and on weekends he dedicated his time to us to eat and go out and now we miss him. My husband has given sixteen years of happiness and love to my sons and me but we won’t return to Mexico because my boys don’t know anyone there and they speak very little Spanish and it’s very difficult to adapt to another country when their whole life has been here they were born here and they are growing here. For us as parents we want the best for our sons Diego, José Junior, and Vicente. We miss my husband because he was responsible at home. I am his wife and I love him very much and I miss him. Diego, José Junior, and Vicente miss him. We love you very much we give hope to God that very soon we will be together because God does not like to see his children separated.

Vicente Martínez, José’s youngest boy, wrote his own name at the top of a letter scrawled in pencil on ruled school paper. There were no spaces between his words, and his writing was riddled with misspellings and backward letters. Hi Daddy I love you because you take us to the park and to play soccer I miss you because you take us to the stores and you take us to go to work and to get money to feed us. The final two lines of Vicente’s letter were incomprehensible, a jumble of letters that sometimes approximated words and sounds in Spanish. The Spanish word for God, Dios, could be discerned and, perhaps, the word for church, iglesia. I miss you very much, Vicente wrote clearly at the end, te extraño mucho.

José Junior had written on two half sheets of paper. On one of them he wrote a brief letter addressed to his father, much like that of his younger brother. At the bottom of the message he taped a wallet-sized picture of himself with tattered edges. On the second sheet of paper José Junior drew his family on a soccer field with frowning faces, the stick figures labeled MOM, BROTHER, BIG BROTHER. Below it was another drawing, almost identical, except this time the stick figures had smiles on their faces and an extra figure drawn next to them, labeled DAD.

Diego wrote a letter that continued across several sheets of paper. At two and a half pages, it was the longest of any in the packet. In its opening paragraphs, Diego seemed to realize that his father would likely not see or read his words, and he did his best to maintain a formal tone. Dear to who it may concern, the letter began, Hi I’m Diego Martínez I’m the son of José Martínez I’m his oldest son I am 15 years old. I have two younger brothers. One is 10 and the other is 8. I’m working to keep my brothers happy to buy them what they want to keep them happy. Well my dad José is the nicest guy I know my dad is like my best friend and my father. I treat my dad with so much respect he’s the father any kid would want to have. My mom and my whole family broke down when we saw him at court on the first court he had everyone started crying. And the second court when his friend to work took me and my brothers. I broke down so much when I heard his voice it got me into so much tears. I miss my dad he knew how to cheer us up when we were down. He took us to the park on Monday and Wednesday to play soccer with our church friend he got along with everyone at church my dad was the coolest person most nicest, most religious, most caring person always made my mom happy, always putting a smile in our faces every single day he’s also very smart and very funny. My dad always has a smile on his face trying to always help people who are in need. How I feel right now about my dad being in jail and seeing him like this makes me really sad depressed my father isn’t here with us everyone that asks me about my dad makes me sad to say he’s in jail. My heart kinda stops pauses and breaks down on every letter they send him he was a man with three children and one woman. Each one of my friends I’ve had for many years loved my dad because he took us to places like to any place appropriate, to mountains in the west to parks to many places in the city. My dad did anything to make us happy now my life is depressing hollow my dad’s not here. A missing place for him here waits. My dad’s a very responsible man. When I was little my dad was always by my side and always will still be by my side. I pray to God that my dad is always okay. I miss my dad so much it’s really hard to express and write. I miss you so much dad. You always told us to never look back and always look forward thanks for always being there for us and never letting us go dad. We miss you so much. Just remember God is always by our side never letting us go. We all want them to set you free here. Everyone at church and his two works misses him a lot. Everyone misses my dad nobody wants him to get sent back to Mexico. Everyone’s praying for you to let you out safely and still the same José we know. Dad we have a tournament for soccer for church on the twenty six of this month. I’ll be making goals for you, the goals will be for you. You taught me how to play soccer and told me never to give up dad I’m a win that trophy for us. I’m training with everything I got to get better each day. Thank you to whoever got the time to read this I’m sorry it’s so long it’s because I really love my dad we all do and we’re all sad to know he’s in jail. Sincerely, his oldest son Diego Martínez.

—

As I drove home after a shift at the coffee shop my phone lit up with a text message: Hey its Diego I just wanted to tell u that their going to deport my dad back in the night.

Then, a few hours later, an email from Elizabeth Green: Unfortunately, I just received a message from the deportation officer that our request for prosecutorial discretion and a stay of removal was denied. I know no one wants this news. José had a great application with more support than I have seen in any of my other requests. They did not give a reason for the denial. The message states that José will be removed to Mexico this evening.

I stared at the screen, thinking of Lupe and the boys, wondering where José would sleep in the night.

In the evening I received a text message from Lupe: I’m sorry but can u call the lawyer José needs to see my baby because he fell and their going to operate. I called Lupe right away. Vicentito is in the hospital, she told me, he fell and broke his arm playing soccer in the park. They’re going to put screws in his arm, she said. I told her that I was sorry, that I would help in any way I could. But why do you want me to call the lawyer? I asked. Oh, Lupe said hurriedly, so that José can come see Vicente before they send him back. She sounded desperate, at the edge, with something in her voice I had not yet heard. I tried to speak gently. There’s no way to get ahold of José, I said. Immigration agents have him now, they’re taking him back to the border. The lawyer can’t contact them. Oh, I heard her say. I tried to come up with some words of comfort—I’m sure José will call when he’s across the border, I said. Lupe was silent. Okay, she finally said. I understand.

—

As I walked trembling in the night through the streets of my neighborhood, I called my mother. She asked how I was doing and I answered unthinkingly. I’m fine, I said. You don’t sound fine, she finally said. What do you mean? I asked. My mother sighed. I’m your mother, she said, I can sense it. You’ve been distant. I felt an edge in her voice. This feels like it used to feel, she finally said. I stopped walking. I don’t understand, I told her. It’s like when you were on the border, she said. All those years I knew things were weighing on you, but you were so sensitive to my questions—I couldn’t ask about it, I couldn’t show concern, I could never reach you. I don’t want that again. I’m too tired for it now.

I stood for a while at the side of the street, staring out at the houses of my neighbors. Finally, I sat down on the curb. When did you know? I asked. She paused. Something had gone away from our conversations, she said. I don’t know how to describe it. She searched for a better explanation. There’s a story I remember from Catholic school, she told me. There was this brilliant child, a music prodigy. He could play anything—he would hear birds sing and then turn it into music. At a very young age he was sent away to be trained by monks. When he arrived at the monastery they forbade him from hearing any music but his own, they forbade him from listening to any of the famous composers. They wanted him to write and create his own music, and for many years he did—he created the most phenomenal things. But as he got a bit older he became frustrated. He wanted to study, he wanted to hear other kinds of music. And so one day he snuck away from the monastery. He went to a nearby town and went into a concert hall, where he heard Mozart. When he came back, he didn’t tell anyone, he kept creating new music just like before. A few days after his return, the monks heard him playing and they told him to stop. You’ve broken the rule, they told him. He looked at them with panic and insisted, no I haven’t, I haven’t, I haven’t. They shook their heads and said, yes you have, you’ve discovered Mozart. No, he said, how could you know that? Because, they said, when you played without knowing, you played music from every composer—and now Mozart is missing.

When she finished the story, my mother fell silent. I sat hunched on the curb, the phone pressed against my ear. My friend, I finally told her, he’s been deported. I felt unable to breathe. I fear for him, I said, I fear for his family. All these years, I told her, it’s like I’ve been circling beneath a giant, my gaze fixed upon its foot resting at the ground. But now, I said, it’s like I’m starting to crane my head upward, like I’m finally seeing the thing that crushes.

—

On the phone Lupe told me that José was safe. He’s staying at the border, she said, with a man from our church. He has food and shelter there. Gracias a Dios, she kept saying, bendito sea Dios. She told me that José hadn’t decided his next move yet, but that he was looking for someone to cross him again. I wanted to tell her no, that José should not risk his life, that he should find some other way, but I knew, with sinking certainty, that for him there was no other option, and so I remained silent.

I asked Lupe about the boys and she told me that an uncle with papers had offered to take them across the border so they could see their father. It would be good for them to see him someplace besides the jail, she said, it would be good for them to be able to hug him. She added that she wished she could take the boys herself, that she wished she could see her husband with her own eyes.

A week later I checked in again with Lupe. Did the boys see José? I asked. Yes, she said, but not Vicente. He just got his arm put in a cast. He’s a little sad, she explained, he hasn’t seen his daddy since he was in court. Lupe told me that José was still at the border, that he planned to cross again soon, maybe this weekend, that everything was fine, that he told her not to worry.

Several days later Lupe sent a text message: José told me he’d cross Sunday to walk thru the desert but I’m worried now because it’s been 3 days and I still haven’t heard anything from him.

Then, a few days later: Buenos dias, José is back at the border, la migra chased him but his group scattered and they couldn’t catch him, gracias a Dios. His body aches and he has a fever. He needs rest.

—

I dream that I am at work, that Diane is sitting at the bar drinking a latte. Look, Diane says, pointing through the open doors across the courtyard. It’s José. I look out and see a gaunt man with a gray beard wandering slowly and aimlessly along the walkway. I leave the counter and make my way to him. He is wearing a black baseball hat and a gray shirt hangs loosely from his thin shoulders. José, I say. You’re back. His eyes are sunken in their sockets, his face is dark and old. I’ve been in the desert, he says. There are things I could tell you.

—

I ran into Diane and her children in the checkout line of the grocery store. Listen, she told me as she wrested a candy bar from the clutches of her five-year-old daughter, we want to give something to José’s family for Christmas. The kids raised money at a bake sale and they want Lupe and the boys to have it. That’s so sweet, I said. I looked down at Diane’s daughter, twirling in circles beside the magazine rack. Do you have any idea what the boys like? Diane asked. I know they like soccer, I told her. I could get them a gift certificate to the soccer shop, she suggested. And maybe a certificate to Target for Lupe. She could get whatever she needs there, you know, things for the house, school supplies, clothes for the boys. I smiled. That’d be great, I said, I’m sure they’ll really appreciate it. Diane reached out to stop her infant son, seated in the shopping cart, from ingesting a tube of lip balm. She sighed. Sorry, she said. If I give you the certificates later this week, do you think you could deliver them to Lupe for me? I don’t speak any Spanish, she said, we won’t be able to understand each other. I nodded. Of course, I said.

—

At the doorstep of her trailer, Lupe shied away from me as I held out the envelope to her. It’s too much, she said, I can’t take it. Diane’s kids raised the money, I told her. They want you to have it. She breathed in and lifted her face toward the sky with a look of resignation. It’s a gift, I told her, it’s almost Christmas. Lupe squinted at the sun and then took the envelope and stared down at the ground. I don’t know how to thank them, she said. Will you tell them how much I appreciate it?

Before I left, I asked Lupe about José. Oh, she said. Things are hard right now, un poco difícil. She told me José had crossed again a week ago and was caught by the Border Patrol. He didn’t go to court, she said, they didn’t send him to prison, but they bused him away, far from here, they deported him through Mexicali. I shook my head. They do that sometimes, I told her, to make it harder for them to cross in the same place again. Well, she said, he’s still trying to get across, but there’s some problems with the coyotes. What’s the problem? I asked. Lupe interlaced her fingers in front of her stomach. It’s just that he’s afraid of them, tiene un poco miedo. She paused. I’m afraid too, she added.

I asked her what happened and she looked into the distance and began wringing her hands. What happened is that three or four days after José crossed, I still hadn’t heard anything from him. One morning I got a call from this man who said they needed extra money to get José to the city. He said that José was in a safe house but that they needed a thousand dollars to bring him the rest of the way. I asked him to put José on the phone so I would know he was telling the truth, but the man said he wasn’t with him. He told me that José was fine, that I should trust him, that they just needed an extra thousand dollars to finish the trip. I told the man to call me back when he could put José on the phone. I’ll give the money once I talk to him, I said, and I hung up.

Lupe began to talk more slowly, drawing out her sentences, speaking through one side of her mouth. The rest of the morning I didn’t know what to do with myself. I took the boys to school, I didn’t tell them about the phone call. I came back home and for a while I just sat around the house trying to think of what to do. Finally I went out to take cash from the bank. I was shaking the whole time.

Later that same day, she continued, two men came to my door just before sundown. They told me that if I wanted José to make it home, I’d better give them the money right there. The boys were home from school by then, she said, they didn’t know what to think. What was I supposed to do? She turned her palms up in a small gesture of surrender. I was scared, she said. She drew her shoulders around her neck and shook her head to one side and shuddered. I wanted to reach out and touch her.

The men took the money and left, Lupe continued. They said not to worry, that they’d bring José in the morning. I couldn’t even sleep that night, I didn’t know what to do. Lupe began wringing her hands again. By the next afternoon, they still hadn’t come, so I dialed the same number they had called me from the day before. A different man answered this time. He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about and he said I’d better calm down, that I’d better wait patiently, that if I knew what was good for me I wouldn’t call again, and then he hung up. I felt so desperate, I was outside of myself.

Finally, late in the night, José called. He was in Mexicali, he had just been deported. He didn’t know what I was talking about—he was never in a safe house, he was never with those men. He was so angry that he called the man who had made all the arrangements to smuggle him. What are you going to do with the money you took from my wife? he asked. Are you going to use it to get me back across the border, to bring me back to my family? The man claimed he didn’t know what he was talking about, he told José he should think twice before making accusations, and then he warned him that he’d better not see him again, that if he saw him again he’d kill him.

Lupe was silent for a long time before finally shrugging her shoulders. José thinks it was just a threat, she said, just talk. He’s back at the border now, waiting to cross, but he’s staying somewhere else, in a different part of town. She looked up again, squinting at the sun. He says he’s safe there, but he doesn’t go out much, he doesn’t want to be seen in the streets, just to be sure.

I asked Lupe if José was planning to cross again. Yo creo que sí, she said. But the nights are cold right now, and he needs someone new to take him across. She rubbed her arms. He’s going to wait awhile, I think, until the time is right, until he finds someone he can trust. I looked away and shook my head. I wanted to confess to her that I wished I had the courage to smuggle José myself, to ferry him safely through the desert, past the sensors and watchtowers, past the agents patrolling distant trails and dirt roads, past the highway checkpoints. I wished that I could drive with him seated next to me, listening to him tell of his love for his dead mother, for the green hills of Oaxaca, for the streets and archways of his village. I wished that we could drive together through the night, past faraway fields and prisons to the edge of the city, its lights shimmering and stretched out across the vast basin before us, that we could make our way through empty streets and abandoned intersections, past the courthouse and the mercado until we finally arrived at the barrio, at the trailer park, at the door of José’s home where Lupe would lie sleeping with their three children, no longer afraid to wake.

—

On Christmas Eve, I drove to my childhood home to be with my mother. At night, we sat together around a small tree and each opened a single present. Afterward, we stayed in the living room drinking eggnog and brandy, drifting in and out of conversation. As the night wore on, my mother asked me about José. You still seem distant, she said. I stared at the glass bulbs hanging from the plastic limbs of our artificial tree. I don’t know what to do, I confessed. I feel pain, I feel hurt, but it isn’t mine. My mother sat on the couch across from me. It’s like—I paused, looking around the room, thinking of what to say. It’s like I never quit, I finally muttered. It’s like I’m still a part of this thing that crushes. My mother made a sound, like she was taking in a breath, like she was about to say something. It’s been almost four years since I left, I told her, but when I’m in the courtroom, when I’m talking with the lawyers, when I’m at the jail, it’s like something inside of me still belongs to it. I leaned forward and ran my hands through my hair.

You know, my mother said, it’s okay to feel pain. Of course José’s pain isn’t yours, of course his family’s hurt isn’t your hurt. But he’s your friend, so give yourself permission to grieve for him, permission to mourn that he cannot be here. I shook my head. But José’s situation is not unique. There are thousands of people just like him, thousands of cases, thousands of families. Millions, actually—the whole idea of it is suffocating. My mother nodded. It’s true, she said, but it’s also true that for his family, and for you, José is unique. Sure there might be thousands or millions of people in his position, but it’s because of him that their situation is no longer abstract to you. You are no longer severed from what it means to send someone back across the border. You know what’s keeping him away, what keeps him from his family. It’s something close to you, something that’s become a part of you.

My mother took a long drink from her eggnog. You know, she told me, the first job I ever had was at the Desert Museum in Tucson. I was barely a teenager and all I wanted, more than anything else in the world, was to be around the animals. There was one man there, the curator of reptiles, who took me under his wing. He let me follow him through all the exhibits and let me help with feeding the animals and cleaning their cages. I remember watching him feed the snakes each day—he would take these little ground squirrels, grab them by the hind legs, and rap their heads against a countertop to quickly snap their necks. Then he would throw them right to the snakes, their bodies still warm and twitching. One day I tried to rescue one of the ground squirrels—I snuck it into my bag and brought it home. I tried taking care of it for days, until I eventually realized that I had failed, that the animal was dying, and that I was the one responsible for killing it. When the little squirrel could barely move, I finally took it up by its hind legs and tried to end its life the way I had seen the curator do it. I smashed it against a table and threw it onto the ground. When I finally got the courage to look down at its body, I realized that the little squirrel was still alive, that one of its eyes had popped out. I panicked and I grabbed it by the legs and slammed its head over and over again against the ground, crying until I knew it was finally dead.

My mother sighed and looked at my face. As I looked back at her, I realized that I had been clenching my teeth. I still carry that around with me, my mother said, I’ll never forget it as long as I live. She looked down into her glass of eggnog. What I’m saying is that we learn violence by watching others, by seeing it enshrined in institutions. Then, even without choosing it, it becomes normal to us, it even becomes part of who we are. As my mother spoke she leaned forward, and I wondered if she would reach out to touch me.

The part of you that is capable of violence, she said, maybe you wish to be rid of it, to wash yourself of it, but it’s not that easy. I sat back in my seat and stared up at the ceiling, listening to my mother’s voice. You spent nearly four years on the border, she said. You weren’t just observing a reality, you were participating in it. You can’t exist within a system for that long without being implicated, without absorbing its poison. And let me tell you, it isn’t something that’s just going to slowly go away. It’s part of who you’ve become. So what will you do? All you can do is try to find a place to hold it, a way to not lose some purpose for it all.

For a long while I looked down at my hands, trying to control the heat rising in my face. I thought about my dreams, about all the terrors I had never shared with her. Finally, I looked up at my mother and met her gaze. I had a dream José was back, I told her. He came in to work. He was skinny, his beard had grown out, his face was tired and worn. He had been in the desert for days, maybe a week or more, and he still seemed lost. It was like he had something to tell me, but I don’t know what it was. My mother thought for a moment, leaning back on the couch. You know, she said, many cultures believe that our souls travel at night, that they leave the body to visit the people who care about them. So maybe José came to visit you. My mother took one last drink from her eggnog. Or maybe you need to visit him, she suggested, looking at me from across the room. Maybe you need to go to him and listen.