A dramatic shift at the border as migrants converge on a remote corner of South Texas
It was late afternoon when José Albornoz emerged, tired and soaking wet, from the Rio Grande near Eagle Pass, Texas.
The first person he encountered on the U.S. side was Luis Valderrama, a former U.S. Border Patrol agent who owns the cattle ranch where Albornoz was now standing.
"What's under your shirt?" Valderrama asked in Spanish.
It was a good question. There was a huge bulge visible under Albornoz's black T-shirt that could have been anything. Valderrama asked Albornoz if he had a gun or a knife.
"Don't be worried. I'm not carrying anything bad," Albornoz said, pulling out a wet plastic garbage bag.
He took out a dry change of clothes, a small bag with his documents, some throat lozenges, and — most importantly — his smartphone.
"My trip was organized and planned by Google, practically, not me," Albornoz said in Spanish, laughing.
Then he turned on his phone to call his wife back in Venezuela to let her know he'd made it to Texas.
Albornoz crossed the river in what has become one of the
