“How many people are at risk of an encounter with ICE?” She looked down, then up at me through her thin rectangle-shaped glasses. She lifted up her left arm, squeezing her fist into a ball and pulling it back toward her face, purposefully drawing my attention to the brown skin on her wrist. “Anybody that looks like this is at risk. Because they’re stopping everybody.” “That’s a lot of people in Los Angeles,” I said to her, immediately realizing I had asked a stupid question with an obvious answer. “Tell me about it,” she replied.
