We work with the Mexican authorities. We have our own

Host: The borderline desert stretched endlessly beneath a metallic twilight — where the sand met wire, and the wind carried secrets in both languages. A faint hum of drones traced the distant sky, their sound blending with the call of unseen coyotes and the low rumble of patrol trucks in the distance.

A makeshift campfire flickered weakly in a hollow, throwing trembling light against two faces: Jack, his jaw tight, his eyes reflecting both the flame and fatigue; and Jeeny, wrapped in a scarf, her dark hair pulled back, her expression a blend of curiosity and sorrow.

They sat beside an abandoned stretch of fencing, a symbol both literal and invisible. On the ground between them, Jeeny’s tablet glowed faintly with the quote she’d just read aloud:

“We work with the Mexican authorities. We have our own intelligence architecture. And we are aware of the involvement of smuggling organizations in irregular migration and the misinformation that they disseminate to vulnerable populations.” — Alejandro Mayorkas

Jeeny: (softly) “It sounds so official. So clean. But behind those words… I hear the ache of people who ran out of options.”

Jack: “Or the consequences of chaos. Every government official sounds clean because someone has to. It’s the only way to hold the line.”

Jeeny: “The line? Or the illusion of it?”

Jack: “Doesn’t matter. Nations run on lines — borders, laws, budgets, truths. Without them, the world’s just sand and hunger.”

Jeeny: “And yet here we are, sitting on sand, talking about hunger.”

Host: The fire cracked, small embers spiraling upward into the cool desert air. The night smelled of dust and diesel. The sound of distant voices carried faintly through the wind — patrols, perhaps, or families moving quietly beneath the stars.

Jeeny: “You think the smugglers are the only ones spreading misinformation? You think desperation doesn’t have its own propaganda?”

Jack: “Desperation doesn’t justify deception. You tell people there’s hope across the line when there’s nothing but another system waiting to swallow them. That’s cruelty, not compassion.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t cruelty already built into the system? Walls, checkpoints, detention centers — you think those don’t lie? They promise safety and deliver waiting.”

Jack: “That’s reality, Jeeny. Systems are built to manage pain, not erase it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the system’s broken when managing pain becomes its only achievement.”

Host: A truck passed by in the distance, its headlights flashing briefly across their faces before vanishing into the night. The silence that followed was heavy — the kind of silence that carries unspoken names.

Jack: “You know what Mayorkas meant? Intelligence architecture — the idea that we can predict, trace, control. It’s about knowing what’s coming before it arrives. It’s not about cruelty. It’s about order.”

Jeeny: “Order without empathy is just efficiency.”

Jack: “Empathy without order is chaos.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But empathy’s the only thing that keeps order from becoming tyranny.”

Jack: “And tyranny’s the word people use when rules finally touch them.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint hum — music, perhaps, from a radio far away. It sounded lonely, like something left behind.

Jeeny stared into the fire, her reflection flickering in her eyes.

Jeeny: “You’ve been on that side of the fence, haven’t you?”

Jack: “Too many times. Long nights. Interrogations. Tired people. Angry people. Scared people. All of them chasing something that looks like hope but isn’t.”

Jeeny: “And what did you tell them?”

Jack: “That rules are rules.”

Jeeny: “And what did you want to tell them?”

Jack: (after a pause) “That I didn’t blame them.”

Jeeny: “And you think that makes you clean?”

Jack: “No. Just human.”

Host: The fire hissed, a gust sending sparks swirling into the darkness. The desert swallowed them whole.

Jeeny: “Mayorkas talks about misinformation — how smugglers tell people lies to move them. But what about the lies of comfort? The ones governments tell themselves — that borders protect, that bureaucracy absolves, that walls can replace understanding?”

Jack: “You sound idealistic.”

Jeeny: “You sound tired.”

Jack: “I am. Because idealism without logistics doesn’t save lives — it buries them.”

Jeeny: “And logistics without conscience buries them faster.”

Host: A brief silence fell, filled only by the sound of the wind moving through the fence — a low, metallic whisper. It sounded like breath.

Jack: “You know what this whole operation is, Jeeny? It’s an ecosystem of desperation. Governments, smugglers, families — everyone playing survival from a different seat. And Mayorkas is just the voice that has to sound calm in the middle of the storm.”

Jeeny: “But calm isn’t the same as right.”

Jack: “No. But it’s the only tone the world listens to.”

Host: The moon emerged from behind the clouds, lighting up the sand in a pale glow. The fence threw long shadows — a pattern of bars stretching endlessly across the ground.

Jeeny: “You know, I once met a woman at the border — she said she didn’t want a better life. Just a fair chance to survive the one she already had.”

Jack: “And did she cross?”

Jeeny: “She did. She made it three miles. Then dehydration got her son.”

Jack: (quietly) “I’ve seen too many graves marked with names no one will ever say aloud.”

Jeeny: “And yet we keep saying words like ‘architecture,’ ‘intelligence,’ ‘cooperation.’ Words that build nothing but distance.”

Jack: “Because language is how governments stay clean while dealing with dirt.”

Jeeny: “And the dirt? It’s human.”

Host: The fire burned lower now, its flame flickering like the pulse of something fragile but alive. The desert stretched on — indifferent, vast, endless.

Jeeny looked at Jack — not with judgment, but with the quiet recognition of someone who’d finally stopped pretending the world was simple.

Jeeny: “Maybe the question isn’t who’s right — the smugglers, the states, the migrants, the guards. Maybe the real question is what happens to our souls when survival itself becomes a crime.”

Jack: “You think anyone has time for souls when nations are breaking?”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly when we need them most.”

Host: The first light of dawn began to bleed into the horizon — pale pink over gold sand. Somewhere far off, a patrol truck slowed, headlights dimming as it turned back toward the station.

Jeeny rose, pulling her scarf tighter, her silhouette sharp against the rising light.

Jeeny: “Maybe Mayorkas is right. Maybe we need intelligence. But not just the kind that watches — the kind that understands.”

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t stop the flow.”

Jeeny: “No. But it reminds us we’re talking about people, not patterns.”

Jack: “And people are unpredictable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why they matter.”

Host: The sun rose higher, spilling fire over the fence, over the worn ground, over the tired faces of two people trying to make sense of a border that existed as much inside them as it did outside.

In the silence that followed, Mayorkas’s words echoed — official, measured, necessary.

And yet, beneath those polished syllables, the truth trembled like a wire in the wind:

that every policy carries a heartbeat,
every border hides a story,
and every architecture of control
is built upon the fragile, furious truth
that no wall can ever contain the human will to move toward hope.