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If the states intended to sway the federal government to toughen immigration policy, they so far have been unsuccessful. But in the process, they've provided a service to thousands of migrants seeking homes in the United States. [...]

Most migrants who cross the border don't have much cash on hand and never intended to stay in Del Rio. Many are trying to reunite with family or friends in other parts of the country. When orientation is over, the migrants come back outside into the rain, each carrying a yellow folder with the name of their destination handwritten over the top--Chicago, New Jersey, Miami, Washington D.C. More than half of the 273 people who arrived that day decided to take the Operation Lone Star Bus.

Those who have opted to take the bus are quickly ushered into a building manned by the Texas National Guard. "As soon as they step foot in the U.S., I consider them the U.S.'s responsibility," says one of the Guardsmen, who spoke under condition of anonymity because he isn't authorized to speak to the media. It isn't political to him, he says, but rather about helping people on American soil.

The crush at the border is increasing. In 2021, VVBHC assisted about 23,300 people who had crossed the U.S.-Mexico border. Between January and August of this year, that figure neared 32,000. In August alone, 4,500 people were processed through VVBHC.

When VVBHC was founded in 2019, the protocols were different. CBP would either release migrants to local churches or at drop-off points, where they would be on their own to figure out their next steps. The organization was formed as a stopgap to aid migrants and keep the community from being inundated with people unsure of where to go, says Burrow. "When I hear that Washington D.C. is overwhelmed with people, I'm not sure they really realize what they're saying," she says. "They haven't been to the border. They are not seeing what my eyes are seeing here."

While the migrants wait for their charter bus to arrive, many make use of VVBHC's portable showers. It'll be their last chance to wash before the two-night journey to New York City. After five minutes, a Guardsman in a camo-pattern rain poncho knocks on their door, rushing them out. "Buena suerte," he tells them: "Good luck."

The first Operation Lone Star bus of the day arrives at VVBHC around noon. Before boarding, each of the migrants is fitted with a white wristband imprinted with a barcode--a way for Texas to monitor people who use the program. As the travelers board the bus, an official scans their bands and checks their bags, and Burrow hands out sweatshirts for the air-conditioned ride. The bus's 52 seats fill up quickly. A dog sniffs for drugs, and then it takes off. Even through the tinted windows, it's easy to see hands waving goodbye.

For the next two days and nights, 27-year-old Jhason from Venezuela sleeps upright. He and the other passengers are fed pink packages of food resembling military MRE's. "HUMANITARIAN DAILY RATION," the wrapping reads in all capital letters. Beneath the image of an American flag it says: "Food Gift From the People of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA."

"The food isn't that good, but thank God they're helping us with this," Jhason, who is being identified only by his first name because he fears for the safety of his family in Venezuela, tells TIME in Spanish via WhatsApp from aboard the bus. Jhason says he traveled through seven countries over 43 days to get to the U.S.-Mexico border. He has no family or friends in the U.S., but he decides to hop off the bus in Washington because it sounds like a good place to find work, and because he's looking forward to a cold winter.

The passengers on the bus share the same objective, according to Jhason: "To be safe and well emotionally, physically, and psychologically, and even financially."

On Aug. 26, a different bus carrying migrant families arrives at a local Catholic church in Washington D.C. after a two-night trip from Yuma, Ariz. The travelers are met by volunteers who help the migrants plan travel to their final destinations, and give them food, clothes, and the option to shower.

Jennifer and Jimmy are traveling with their three children, ages 16, 13, and 9. They are trying to get to Boston where they have cousins. The family fled Peru in July when Jennifer started receiving threats from a local gang member. Jennifer, who is being identified only by her first name because she fears retaliation, shows TIME a recording she took on her phone of the gang member threatening to kill his wife, who is one of Jennifer's friends. When the gang member found out about the recording, Jennifer says, he started threatening her for collecting evidence of his behavior.

After that frightening ordeal, a safe, free bus that would take her family closer Boston was a "blessing," she says while her youngest child plays with a stuffed animal gifted to her by the church. And the food wasn't too bad: "We ate hamburgers every day," she says with a laugh. Tatiana Laborde, managing director of SAMU First Response, the international nonprofit leading the Washington operation, says migrants on the buses from Arizona often have more amenities than those arriving from Texas-- better food than Jhason's rations, for example, and paramedics onboard. "Texas is Texas," Laborde says.

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