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Sometimes I'd walk the fields, sometimes I'd find a spot between the rows of corn and sleep. I usually woke up before dawn, so no one would notice me slacking off. One night, I was doing my rounds when I found my friend Miguel sitting down drinking a beer from the cooler next to him. He's celebrating the birth of his daughter in his own way. I sit with him, and together we celebrate. After a few too many, I mumble that I should go finish my rounds and I stumble to my spot in the corn and go to sleep. I don't wake up. No one goes to find me, they just assume I'm home. I'm not found until the grain harvester has mutilated my body. I was pulled out of the harvester, alive and barely breathing. Back then, most people didn't make a fuss if a migrant worker was hurt in the fields. Occupational hazard, most called it. I was taken to a hospital, where they did what they could, and was sent home. I was between life, and death. A Curandero was sent for, hoping that his witchcraft would heal me. After three days of him chanting, lighting candles, and praying into his beads, I awoke. My body, disfigured from the harvester. When I healed, I was allowed to go back to my job and guard the fields but during the day. Many of the other workers would look at me scared or startled. I looked like a scarecrow of sorts, just standing there guarding them. That was my life now, just a scarecrow guarding the corn fields.

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