PROLOGUE

The artist walks across the cracked cement floor, spackled in a kaleidoscope of paint and plaster. The studio is spacious, yet crude, with unfinished walls of aluminum siding, and ceiling beams protruding overhead. Light bulbs dangle from above, all of them on, providing light needed for her work. Night has fallen.

She stops at the corkboard that hangs on her back wall, and peers at the black and white photographs tacked to it. The pictures are all snapshots of people, mostly young men in their twenties, though there are some women and children. The people in these photos all share a common thread; they have dark skin and dark eyes, all of Mexican decent. One other shared trait is their look of desperation. It mirrors the shadow of death.