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  • The U.S-Mexico Border: 5 Miles the sign read in both Spanish and English.

    Eduardo’s music rose louder and louder, now flooding their seats and the Norteño music.

    With one more turn of the bus, all the passengers heads swayed to one side as if allowing themselves to be carried. The bus tossed them playfully, unlike the rigid and silent city bus they have recently taken in Delano’s mornings and evenings.

    The pounding of Eduardo’s radio gradually turned to a familiar Cumbia hum.

    A young woman next to them gently grasped the hand of her boyfriend sitting beside her side. She moved her leg into the aisle, and looked to Ana.

    “Buenas tardes,” the young woman said with a soft smile over the music.

    “Buenas tardes.”

    “Contenta, happy to be going home?” the young woman asked her in Spanish.

    Ana began to say something about how expensive things could be to her in English, but then sat back in her seat, relaxing her arm to the side of their seats. The words seemed to be rising inside her with each kilometer and with each beat of the Cumbia.

    Eduardo moved his leg away from the window, and looked up at his mother as she began to answer.
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