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the culvert, on the north side of the eastbound lane of Interstate 10. He knew enough not to try to cross the highway—agents would be scanning the highway with night vision equipment. He also knew he could not stay there—the Border Patrol would be quickly setting up a perimeter around the murder scene.
    He crawled on his belly in the sandy median between the east and west lanes of the interstate highway, praying that the sand and dirt that covered him from head to toe would allow him to blend in with the earth. A few minutes later he came across a culvert on the westbound lane, and he crawled in. This one was a bit larger, and he found it easy to crawl to the other side. He found another irrigation pipe and decided to follow it, pausing to hide behind a concrete support or valve whenever he heard any vehicles approaching. As his eyes adapted to the dark, he spotted several barns and other service buildings nearby in the fields, but he dared not try to enter any of them because he knew that’s the first place the police would look for him.
    After almost an hour of nearly continuous running, interspersed with frantic searches for hiding places, he came across a knoll and a service road that crossed the westbound lane of the interstate. His throat was completely dry, and he was becoming dizzy from dehydration and exertion. He saw several men sitting on the side of the service road, speaking Spanish and passing a large bottle of something in a paper bag back and forth between them. He would only stay for a second, he told himself—one sip of whatever they had, that was all. He started to stand up and raised his arms to flag them down…
    …then instinctively dropped to the ground—just as a sheriff’s patrol car, slowly and quietly cruising down the service road on the other side of the interstate, turned on its red flashing lights. “¡No muévase! ¡Este es la policía! ¡Levántese con su arriba las manos! ¡Tengo un K-9!” came the order from the car’s loudspeaker.
    Oh shit, a dog! Victor didn’t hesitate. He crawled into the field to his right, took a few moments to find the deepest, smelliest open furrow he could, then began to scoop soil on top of himself. In moments he had completely covered himself in coarse, sandy loam, stinking of fresh fertilizer and decaying vegetation. If the men tried to run and they let the dog go, he was caught.
    But the men didn’t run. Victor could hear bits and pieces of conversation: it turned out all the men had identity cards and lived nearby—they may have been illegals, but the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department rarely detained undocumented workers who were minding their own business. If they tried to arrest even a third of them, their jails would be full to bursting, Victor knew. The questioning took some time, but the sheriff’s deputy never let his dog loose, and eventually the patrol car departed.
    Not long afterward, Victor rose up from the putrid stench of the furrow when he heard the workers leaving. He was shivering from a combination of thirst, hunger, fear, and adrenaline. He didn’t want to, but he heard himself call out to the workers, “Hey, amigos. Espere, por favor .”
    Each of the men instantly produced a weapon—pocket knives, a tire iron, a tine from a tractor-pulled rake, and an ax handle. “¿Quién es ello?” one of them called out.
    “My name is Victor, Victor Flores. I need help.”
    “Victor? El coyote? ” another asked.
    “Sí.”
    “Victor! What’s happening, my man?” The older man with the tire iron ran over to him. “I am Jorge. You brought me and my brothers across the border many times, my friend.” He handed Victor a bottle of warm malt liquor; Victor nearly puked on it, but he gulped down a few mouthfuls. “What has happened to you?”
    “We must get out of here, Jorge,” one of the other workers said. “The sheriff will be back.”
    “Shut up, Carlos. This man has helped me more than you ever have.” Jorge looked