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Story Twenty-one T here is great variety to the women you might encounter in the desert. We come in many forms. Three of us Samaritans were talking about egg rolls as we walked the trail. It was a hot June morning. We had hiked a couple of miles and were already talking about food. Over to the left, something glistened. I glanced, but then it was gone. I remember thinking that I saw her out of the corner of my eye. The prospect of warm homemade egg rolls in translucent wrappers made my mouth water. Arjahn Sarayut Arnanta, a Samaritan Buddhist monk from Thailand who likes to make a Thai egg roll, had brought enough egg rolls to feed the three of us. Norma, Arjahn, and I were on the Cerro Colorado trail about two miles from the nearest dirt road. Arjahn explained that he once made egg rolls to take to Mariposa, the aid station just on the other side of the line where deported migrants are deposited by Border Patrol. He had made 300 for Mariposa. He and another Samaritan drove an hour and a half from Tucson to the border. Upon arrival, Arjahn looked in the box and found only 298 left. Although Arjahn never asked, the other Samaritan did mention she hadn’t had breakfast before leaving Tucson. He also told us he had taken the monastery dog to the veterinarian . After she finished giving the shots, the vet offered the dog a treat. He didn’t want it. She said, “I’ve never seen a dog refuse these cookies. What do you feed him?” “Thai food and egg rolls,” answered Arjahn. After another half mile, deep in conversation about delicious Thai goodies, we came to a rise and saw a line of seven people snaking single file up a trail. Behind them, as far as we could see, were mounds of cactuscovered hills, faint crisscrossing trails, and overhead a troublesome sun. 122 stories from the migrant trail “¿Tiene suero?” was the first thing a man said as we approached. He was asking for rehydrating fluids, an IV. His name was Marcos. He was sweating and, as he staggered, another man reached out to help him. We were two miles from a road and had passed no shade. Our only choice for cooling them down was two scrawny mesquite trees up the steep hill behind us. The group had been three days on the desert and stayed together when the pollero left with the rest of a large group, telling them to just stay on the trail. Not even the animals “just stay on the trail” because there is no single trail. Trails become tracks and then become nothing. Or suddenly they split, appendages twisting over a hill or down into a wash. One woman said that just before they saw us, they realized they had been walking in circles for days and were giving up hope. Marcos’s brother and another man helped Marcos up the hill to the trees and laid him down. Since our satellite phone was out of order, Norma walked up a hill to call the Arivaca Fire Department with her cell phone to give our GPS location for an ambulance. I stomped on the “cool packs” to kick them into “ice” mode and then placed them under Marcos’s armpits. Arjahn removed his long outer saffron robe and threw it across the leafless branches to make shade. He said “I have been wearing this robe for over twenty years, and it is the first time in twenty years it has been useful—it is now for saving a life.” The group was composed of three men and two women who were sisters. One woman, Rosa, had two sons, eight and nine years old. They were all coming to prearranged jobs in the United States. As I got Marcos to take a few sips of water, I asked Pablo, the eight-year-old, where he was from. He just looked at me. I asked him if he had a girlfriend . He quickly put his face in his mother’s lap and started laughing. Then both boys giggled and told Rosa that I talked funny. She smiled and said be polite, but my gringa accent was just too much for them. I kept talking, and soon everyone was laughing. I made a note to return to Spanish class. Today as I write, I see Juan Diego, the Virgin of Guadalupe, and...

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