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On a summer day of 1988, with only a plastic bag full of homemade wheat bread and desire for a better life, my father and his friend crossed an old wire fence as if they were going on a picnic. Two minutes later, they were stepping on American soil.
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In the gray dawn of the morning he was supposed to leave, my dad came into my room. He sat on the edge of my bed, making a depression in the sheets. He told me to pack my bags and that he would come back in about an hour to get my sister and I — we were going back to Colorado.
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Correspondent Anna King is usually out and about in the region covering agriculture, Hanford, fires and more. But you haven’t heard from her since early June. Why? COVID-19. Here she shares her personal struggle and diary recording her ordeal.