Crossing the Wire by Will Hobbs

miles?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t even think about the distance. It can be done, that’s all that counts.”
    Our destination was a blank spot on the map along a gravel road north of Willcox. The illegals called it The Skinny Dog. La Perra Flaca was a place where mojados lived ten or fifteen to a trailer and were met every morning by labor contractors who took them to work in the onions and the chilies.
    â€œOnce you get north of the interstate,” Miguel explained, “the Border Patrol doesn’t bother you anymore unless you get into trouble or an accident.”
    â€œI can work there too—with you?”
    â€œWhy do you think I’m telling you all this?”
    â€œI can’t tell you how happy this makes me feel.”
    â€œWell, you never know how long the work will last. We’ll work there until you can send a money order home. Then we’ll move on to other states.”
    â€œWhy not stay there?”
    â€œThe work dries up. Anyway, we can do better. In case we get separated, I’ll look for you at La Perra Flaca. Your nose will tell you when you’re getting close. The sewage overflows.”
    Miguel passed the binoculars and had me scan the paved road that ran the length of the San Bernardino Valley. We were going to cross it a mile north of Apache, where the valley narrowed to eight miles. We had to cross the flats before we could find cover in the Chiricahua Mountains.
    â€œI can see a gas station,” I said. “And a few trailers. Where’s Apache?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œI see two perreras.”
    â€œThe dogcatchers flock to those convenience stores for the coffee that is like battery acid.”
    â€œA white jeep with green markings is driving in.”
    â€œMore Border Patrol.”
    â€œMaybe all the patrolmen will be there tonight.”
    â€œSomehow I doubt that.”
    â€œLook, it’s starting to get cloudy. The moon won’t give us away.”
    â€œThey have night-vision goggles.”
    â€œI see three more perreras—two on the side of the highway and one on a dirt road dragging something behind.”
    â€œTires hooked together. Every day, they erase the old footprints so they can see the new ones.”
    Miguel took the binoculars back and looked some more. He said that the desert was rigged with motion sensors and hidden cameras—ordinary cameras for the daytime, heat cameras for the night. Even in pitch dark the Border Patrol could see you moving through the desert by the heat of your body. In Apache or nearby, a man was watching dozens of TV screens. Higher overhead than we could see, an airplane that could fly without a pilot might be watching us right now.
    â€œThey sure go to a lot of trouble,” I said. “It’s a crazy world, no?”
    â€œYou got that right. They say that one out of every ten citizens of Mexico is living in the States. Think if they ever rounded us all up. Who would do all the work? Are they willing to pick the fruits and the vegetables to fill their grocery stores? How much would their food cost without us to harvest it? I tell you, they would miss us badly. As for our own country, think if we weren’t able send all this money back to our families.”
    â€œIt’s my family’s only chance.”
    â€œListen carefully now…when we cross to the Chiricahuas tonight, we have to be very alert. If we’re unlucky, we’ll have to run fast as antelopes.”
    â€œBut you can’t do that.”
    â€œIn my case it was just an expression.”
    â€œI wish there weren’t so many Border Patrol.”
    â€œI didn’t expect this many this far north. It’s a sign that wets are hiking greater distances than ever. It means we’ll have to go higher in the mountains than I was thinking. Up into the tall trees. It’ll be cold up there.”
    â€œBetter cold than hot, no? You know what, I predict we