Excerpt
Peering through the misty rain, I saw two white vans with green stripes and some kind of official-looking insignia pulled up to the side of the road. I watched as four guys in uniforms got out of the vans, looked toward us, talked for a minute, and began heading our way across the field.
Silence fell as, one by one, each crew member stopped work to look and then froze. Someone asked a question in Spanish, and I heard panic in his voice. I could feel fear in the air. It was contagious.
"Who are those guys?" I asked. My voice sounded high and squeaky. I wanted to run, but didn't know why. There was nowhere to run to, anyway. The men were drawing closer. To my amazement, I saw that they had guns in holsters around their waists.
"Who are they?" I repeated urgently, when no one answered.
"Migra . . ." someone whispered.