He stares at his hands and says nothing. We get a shot of their backpacks sitting ready in a corner. I grow impatient, think of fast-forwarding, more interested in understanding why Corley has sent me it, but I remember his admonition to watch to the end and so I let it run. So there is more about this brother and sister – their ambitions, their hopes for their future life, what they think America will be like. And then they are gone and we’re listening to a cop sitting in a Volkswagen SUV pulled off the highway, his weight spread fully and loosely over the front seat. He’s wearing mirrored shades and in appearance and manner he looks like he has evolved from Rod Steiger in In the Heat of the Night. And yes, they do their best with the limited resources they have but maybe those up north don’t understand the nature of the problem. There are ripples of flesh circling his neck and as he grows animated they coalesce into a sac from which he seems to dredge the words. So despite the surveillance systems, motion sensors and drones, there’s nothing can stop this influx except old-fashioned feet on the ground and an experienced cop’s instincts. The border is a sieve, he claims, with so many holes that unless something changes their arrests are only a skim across the surface. He shifts his weight and holds on to the steering wheel to help him find a new balance, his eyes scanning each passing car as if it might be laden with illegals. Then he takes off his sunglasses and rubs his eyes as if they’re weary of the constant surveillance. But there’s one more thing he wants to say, which is that he’s been part of body recovery and it’s not something he wants to be doing until he retires. ‘It ain’t a pretty sight,’ he says. ‘Bloated bodies. Often scavengers have been at them before we find them. Not something you can shake easy out of your mind.’ There is sky in the glasses he has put back on. ‘Sometimes they’re so remote you can’t drive and you have to hike to where they’ve been found. Black body bags for the recently dead, white for skeleton remains. It’s not a good experience to carry one of those bags – black or white, but especially black – to where you had to leave your vehicle.’

‘How many bodies have you recovered?’

‘Couldn’t say exactly, but hundreds.’

‘Hundreds?’

‘For sure. Sometimes they get identified, sometimes they don’t. And somebody south of the border is wondering when they’re going to get in contact and somebody north is wondering the same. Maybe if some of them saw what we see, they would think twice about taking the risk.’

It is the type of stuff I feel I’ve seen before, even though the home-grown low tech somehow gives it a sharply personal edge. And then it becomes a drama, because we’re back with the brother and sister packing what they need and telling the invisible interviewer that yes they know there are risks involved but maybe, the young man says, there are more risks in staying. They’re young and fit. Others have made it, sometimes much older. Then we see hands fitting cameras, hidden cameras that will chart their attempt to cross, and I realise that we’re going on the journey with them.