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realization—all of his mornings for the remainder of summer would begin like this—did not help.
    He sat on the topmost step of the house, which itself stood on top of a perimeter of concrete blocks, when Gus whispered through the screen door, “So how’s it look? As scary as I dreamed it last night?”
    â€œLike Dad said, it’s another world.”
    â€œThat bad, huh?”
    â€œI didn’t mean bad. I meant different.”
    Gus came out to the porch with the same mask of determination he put on before a game. Yet the longer hesurveyed the place, the more his demeanor grew less steely. “It’s not that different,” he finally concluded. “See that girl over there? She looks just like one of my classmates. And look at that old guy. He’s the spitting image of our mailman.”
    He carefully observed a few more workers, then asked, “So how do I look?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Gus?”
    â€œYou think I’m dressed all right?”
    Gabriel, still confused, struggled to make sense of the question. “It’s not like you have to wear a uniform for farmwork. There’s no dress code here. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not working in some office.”
    â€œI don’t want to look like some hayseed. But I didn’t want to look out of place either.” He flexed his strong arms, showing the half-rolled sleeves of a bright blue shirt that their mother had carefully ironed back in Texas.
    â€œI don’t look like a dandy, do I?”
    â€œNot at all. You look like your everyday … pimp.”
    His brother, already insecure, took the kidding seriously, so Gabriel had to undo the remark with an energetic thumbs-up. “You look fine, Gus. You just need to rough up your city-boy edges a bit.” He inspected his own arms and hands. “For that matter so do I.”
    â€œThat’ll come soon enough.”
    Gabriel nodded and at the same time tried to stifle a yawn. Then he jumped off the porch to check out the camp in the light of day. He counted close to fifteen shacks, all brimming with youngsters. Several places sported late-model pickups out front that made the shacks appear even shabbier.
    As he strolled down the dirt road that divided the camp, he could sense the uncertainty of the other workers as they watched with inquiring eyes. Several times henodded at them, and all but once they nodded back or raised a hand in greeting. Gradually he realized that Gus was right. The surroundings might seem foreign, but the people were not that different from those he already knew back home. He was especially surprised at the number of migrants speaking English, not just youngsters but adults as well. He had always assumed that agricultural labor was the sole province of Mexicans, especially undocumented workers, and that illegal workers in other jobs, like construction, had ended up there because the jobs in the fields were already taken by other Mexicans. Now, seeing so many native-born migrants like himself, it bothered him that they ended up with these jobs while undocumented workers often had other, betterpaying jobs.
    When he returned, Gus was waiting with a sarcastic look, as if expecting a scouting report. When his younger brother said nothing, he finally asked outright, “So how’s it look? Like Paula’s Disney World?”
    â€œMore like the Third World.”
    He had meant the remark as a joke, just as Gus had, but his brother took it to heart.
    â€œI only hope the Border Patrol doesn’t show up asking us for papers. That would be the ultimate insult.”
    â€œI don’t think the Border Patrol works this far North. Besides, I’m pretty sure the government’s worked out a deal with the growers—”
    â€œCome to think of it,” Gus interrupted, “a raid might not be that bad. It might break up the camp. Then we could go to Anaheim and back home.”
    Before Gabriel