You are almost there when you get to the Border Patrol checkpoint.

“Checkpoint Trauma,” as it is called by the Tohono O’odham people who are regularly pulled over, sniffed by hounds, strip searched by chalky, uncertain hands under the glaring beam of their own headlights.

Our cameras are aimed squarely at the agents when our car rolls to a gentle halt that belies our tightening throats, pounding hearts.