By mid-day the heat of the sun beats down mercilessly. The air is dry. There is no breeze. I sit on a cooler under the kitchen tent. Some mummified chili peppers hang above me. I am a cook by profession, so I find comfort in this kitchen in the middle of the desert. Some migrant men are sitting under another tent, trying to find shade, trying to pass the time until darkness falls. They play cards, not saying much to each other. I look over to the fire pit where we burn trash. A man is kneeling in front of the altar of La Virgen, surrounded by saints on veladoras.
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