As we climbed out of the plane the automatic runway landing lights snapped off, leaving us in the soft desert darkness surrounding the small field.

“Castillo, Texas,” the pilot muttered, nervous, removing the dark glasses he always wore for night flying. “Who the fuck lives out here?”

“Mojados—that’s wetbacks to you gringos—three kinds of drug smugglers, six different breeds of law dogs, and every kind of criminal ever dreamed up,” the guide answered grimly.

“And over there?” the pilot said, waving his glasses at the smoky, smudged lights across the Rio Grande.

“Enojada?” the guide said, amazed. “Bordersnakes, man.”

“Who’s that?”

“Shit, man,” he finally said, “nobody knows who they are. And nobody with any fucking sense gives a shit.”

FROM A CONVERSATION WITH C.W. SUGHRUE