Since learning that Donald Trump will return to the White House, undocumented immigrant Angel Palazuelos has struggled to sleep.
The 22-year-old, a graduate student in biomedical engineering who lives in Phoenix, Arizona, is haunted by the incoming president's promises of mass deportations.
"I was terrified," said Palazuelos, reflecting on the moment he heard the news.
"I am in fear of being deported, of losing everything that I've worked so hard for, and, most importantly, being separated from my family."
Born in Mexico, he has lived in the United States since he was four years old. He is one of the country's so-called "Dreamers," a term for migrants who were brought into the country as children and never obtained US citizenship.
Throughout the election campaign, Palazuelos heard Trump repeatedly rail against illegal immigrants, employing violent rhetoric about those who "poison the blood" of the United States.
Trump has never specified how he intends to go about his plan for mass deportation, which experts warn would be extremely complicated and expensive.
"What do mass deportations mean? Who does that include?" Palazuelos asked.
"Does it include people like me, Dreamers, people that came here from a very young age, that had no say?"
Compounding the stress, the southwestern state of Arizona has just approved by referendum a law allowing state police to arrest illegal immigrants. That power was previously reserved for federal border police.
If the proposition is deemed constitutional by courts, Palazuelos fears becoming the target of heightened racial profiling.
"What makes someone a suspect of being here illegally, whether they don't speak English?" he asked.
"My grandma, she's a United States citizen, however, she doesn't speak English very well. Meanwhile, I speak English, but is it because of the color of my skin that I would possibly be suspected or detained?"
Jose Patino, 35, also feels a sense of "dread" and "sadness." His situation feels more fragile than ever.
Born in Mexico and brought to the United States aged six, he now works for Aliento, a community organization helping undocumented immigrants.
He personally benefited from the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) immigrant policy brought in by Barack Obama, offering protections and work permits for those in his situation.
But for Patino, those safeguards will expire next year, and Trump has promised to end the DACA program.
Indeed, Trump already tried to dismantle it during his previous term, but his decree was scuppered by a US Supreme Court decision, largely on procedural grounds.
Faced with this uncertainty, Patino is considering moving to a state that would refuse to report him to federal authorities, such as Colorado or California.
He remembers well the struggle of being undocumented in his twenties -- a time when he could not obtain a basic job like flipping burgers in McDonald's, and could not apply for a driver's license or travel for fear of being deported.
"I don't personally want to go back to that kind of life," Patino said.
For him, Trump's electoral win is not just scary, but an insult.
"We're contributing to this country. So that's the hard part: me following the rules, working, paying my taxes, helping this country grow, that's not enough," he said.
"So it's frustrating, and it's hurtful."
Patino understands why so many Hispanic voters, often faced with economic difficulties, ended up voting for Trump.
Those who are here legally "believe that they're not going to be targeted," he said.
"A lot of Latinos associate wealth and success with whiteness, and they want to be part of that group and to be included, rather than be outside of it and be marginalized and be considered 'the other,'" he said.
Still, he is angry with his own uncles and cousins who, having once been undocumented themselves, voted for Trump.
"We cannot have a conversation together, because it's going to get into argument and probably into a fight," he said.
