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I met Ana in 1998. She had been living in New York for three years, plotting ways to become a legal U.S. resident. The Bush administration could end her wait with some form of legalization for undocumented aliens, but for now she would rather minimize attention from immigration officials. She consented to have her photograph published as long as her real name was not printed.
Ana crawled from Nogales, Mexico, into Nogales, Arizona, through a moonlit drainpipe, trudged across the Arizona desert, then scrunched herself onto the floor of a car bound for Los Angeles. She finally landed at New York's La Guardia Airport with nothing more than the book of short stories ...