And the people came. There were men without a home, like Thomas Dunlap, 52, who, by chance, noticed the mobile clinic and accepted the inoculation with relief. As did another homeless man, Michael Clinger, 57, who said he was “sick of wearing a mask.”

The team was mostly administering second doses of the Moderna vaccine, but they did not turn away anyone who asked for a first.

“It kind of looks like you got to get it if you want to do anything,” said Enrico DePaul, 54, who is unemployed and originally from Philadelphia. “I waited as long as I could.”

Nikki Somers, 53, an office manager for the Alliance for Pioneer Square, was a witness to the risk. “I had two friends that got Covid,” she said. “I definitely know it was real.”

Like other mobile vaccine sites across the country, the program is aimed at filling in what life’s hardships often deny in terms of opportunity, funds and access.

“It was quite amazing,” said Christl Gay Marcontell, 51, a Pilates instructor whose studio is across the street. “It was hard to find an appointment. I had been searching for two weeks, and I came out, and they were here.”

About a dozen miles from St. Cloud, Minn., a city of about 70,000 people, lies a fruit and vegetable farm owned and run by John and Julie Svihel. About 100 workers coax eggplants, berries, melons, sweet corn and other produce from sandy loam fields that stretch across 800 acres in the state’s central region.

The farm is one of several areas in Minnesota where lack of access to technology and transportation has defined the potential for life, death or debilitating illness.

Last year, when the pandemic started to gather force, its workers, who come from Mexico, Honduras, the Dominican Republic, South Africa, Romania, Moldova, Ukraine and Slovenia, adjusted their lives as so many others did across the country, and stayed put.

But they live in close quarters on the farm, cooking together, working in shifts. The potential for mass infection lurked.

Mr. Svihel was sure that they could have found somewhere to get a vaccine nearby: Downtown Foley was about five miles away. But the shifts of dozens of workers would have to be juggled, transportation organized and language barriers surmounted.

So the Svihels pursued a state initiative that would bring vaccinations to the farm, scheduling them during a pause in planting after a streak of freezing nights. On the afternoon of May 12, in a paved lot, they made way for the traveling clinic.

“The bus pulled in and tractors pulled out,” Mr. Svihel said.

Over the next three hours or so, about 60 workers were vaccinated with the Johnson & Johnson vaccine, which meant the bus needed to make only a single trip. Some of the South African workers declined. Others were fearful, but went ahead, Mr. Svihel said.

The Minnesota Department of Health, local partners and clinical support from Blue Cross Blue Shield started to address gaps early this year by transforming six city buses into clinics. Seats were removed and vaccination stations were installed. Personal protective equipment, canopies, tents and snacks were stowed aboard.

Teams of up to eight people ride along. Since April 12, the buses have rolled out to homeless-services providers, farms, rural communities and multifamily housing units, said Emily Smoak, a department planner.

Ten to 180 people can be vaccinated in one event, depending on its size, she said.

Ms. Smoak said the mobile clinic teams aimed to build trust and curb the impact of the virus on communities, not just drive through them and tally up numbers.

“We are showing up in communities and telling people: ‘You do matter. We are not just going to leave you out of the greater process.”

Produced by Shelby Knowles and Jade-Snow Joachim.

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