On the curb of Lafayette Street, Deyun Li was not sleeping. The closest thing he got to a bed was a concrete bollard topped by a turquoise shower towel folded into a cushion. It was 4 in the morning.

Li was exhausting his travel-worn body. Just four months ago he was back in Fujian, China, prepping to traverse through the hazardous terrains of Central America to reach the U.S. border— a trudge called “Zou Xian,” meaning “trek the line” in Chinese internet vernacular. He was detained for a month by the Immigration and Customs Enforcement, more commonly known as their haunting abbreviation of ICE. After the release, a cash job in Pittsburgh found Li some assurances. A seven-hour Greyhound to the Federal Plaza in the Financial District, however, had put him back on tumble, and into a line different from the one he just trekked, alongside close to a thousand other migrants. 

Li was a part of the City’s daily humanitarian crisis that most New Yorkers slept through. Every weekday before dawn, hundreds of migrants form a line longer than two football fields in front of the Federal Building in Downtown Manhattan.

They all hope to meet with an ICE officer to check themselves in. As a migrant on parole, Li and others are obligated to keep their whereabouts updated with the agency through check-ins with one of their field offices. In Li’s case, that meant gambling to be among the first 500 in the queue—that’s how many people ICE’s New York City office is capped at taking during their stringent two-hour work schedule between 7 and 9. He may try his luck till the end of October, or else face deportation without having his case ever heard by an immigration judge.

People started queuing up as early as the previous afternoon to secure an early spot—those would have to stay on the curb longer than the sun travels through the other side of the world. They prepare themselves with winter jackets and blankets to get through the night. Many make mattresses out of cardboard scavenged from boxes of fresh produce and takeout containers. They were meant to keep peoples’ bottoms from touching the dirty ground, but most seemed as spoiled as the concrete beneath.

Li was in good standing that morning. He got there at around 1 a.m. and secured a spot behind roughly 200 people. It was his second time visit. About 15 hours ago he was lingering around at the Federal Building’s entrance with a small crowd of migrants. According to Li and several site guards, there were a thousand migrants that day waiting to be checked in. Unable to speak English, Li was found struggling with explaining his situation to the guard and received a tempered response. “Ice is closed!” Shout the guard Li tried to show his paperwork with. “The limit is done, that’s it, doesn’t matter who you are. You have to come back tomorrow between five and nine.”

Migrants in line generally consider the Duane Street as the cut off, but the line stretched all the way to the Reade Street, more than one block away. People in the front half of the line squeeze themselves with each other, partially to keep themselves warm, but more to secure their favorable spots away from a few speculators trying to cut into the line.

Spanish speakers were using translation apps to communicate with Mandarin Chinese speakers. People not necessarily in the line were trying to commercialize the scene. Some were selling ballpoint pens, and others were selling spots for latecomers, promising their mostly unsubstantiated access. Seeing people squeezed together, some roaming around were making distasteful, obscene jokes and initiating uninvited physical contact. None had the luxury to take it seriously.

Security officers won’t arrive until 5. Before that, the line effectively governs itself. It appears all people in the line understand how high the stake is and would not dare to be the rule breaker that risks their current standing. 

Migrants collectively tried to push out people trying to sneak in and causing disturbances. A young Chinese migrant shouted “Stop cutting the line! You will make us all lose our place. None of us will get to the entrance in that case.” He was afraid of the guards who had unquestionable authority to enforce orders of the line. They patrol along the line to “smooth out” any protrusions. They might send a bulk of people causing disturbances in the line, including those involved just to defend their rightfully earned spots. The language barrier meant there would be no explanation migrants could do to give themselves defense.

At around 7:40, seven hours after he started queuing Li was finally let in. He picked up a piece of document, almost like an entrance pass, and disappeared in the tented security screening leading to the building.

Half an hour later, he walked out still with all the paperwork in hand and looking more confused. He was not checked in. “I didn’t understand what to fill in,” said Li, holding up that “entrance pass” he picked up earlier. It’s a form labeled “D-4(W),” asking for Li’s file number, contact info, and address — all painfully straightforward if Li speaks English or Spanish.