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The leg was traced in red like the roadkill we saw all along the desert-ladened Federal Highway 1. I heard Louise’s demands before they even left her mouth. “Jacob! Pull over! Pull this van over!” Her eyes glazed and were about to drip, so I caved. I pulled the van up to the nearest curb along some quaint casitas. Louise had the door open before the van even came to its quivering stop. I followed her with water, stale tortillas, and a few curse words that slipped out from under my breath. “How is he...or she?” I asked. “She. The leg is done and she’s getting eaten alive by ticks.” I threw a couple of tortillas on the ground. They disappeared within seconds. “Well, we can just give her a bit of food and then—” “It’s not fair!” Louise began sobbing. “We can’t just—we should be rushing her to a vet!” “This is only our third day out here! And what vet? How many more injured dogs do you think there’ll be? How many vet visits can we provide?” I threw a couple more tortillas. “We can’t take this dog.” Louise’s next cries were interrupted by a slight screech. It came from the house in front of our van. The screen door was rough with a few holes, but the man coming out of it was sleek and suited up. He glided right up to us with excitement and broken English. “Here,” he pointed down. “Sick dogs come. Many grow strong again. This one is Xoloitzcuintli.” We looked back at the famished animal. Her ribs protruded like the steps of Chichen Itza. The man continued trying to accommodate us with English but had something longer to say. He took his phone out and typed for a while. He typed while intermittently looking down at Louise’s tears. His face softened with sympathy. After some time, he handed me his phone. Google translate was open. “I have a meeting soon and need to leave. But I wanted to say that I appreciate what you are doing for this animal. You see the dogs very differently than many of my people see them. Today is my 40th birthday, and you just made my day more special. Thank you. I know a friend near my home who takes care of dogs, but there’s also a vet in town.” I gritted my teeth a bit and handed the message to Louise. She read it, deleted it, then typed a short message. She handed the phone back to the man. He read, typed, then handed the phone back to us. “The vet is down this road, left, then straight ahead across from the building with big whale painting. Only vet in Guerrero Negro.” Then he sped off in a little Scion sports car. Back at the van, I put the dog on a blue sarape. She fell into a desperate sleep. “This journey south isn’t happening the way I thought it would.” I scrambled under the bed for the double-burner and cutting-board. I hit my head on a screw and felt my face get hotter. “Jacob, look at this dog. She’s dying! Her leg...festering! This is the first injured dog we’ve found!" “We’ve only been on the road for five days!... Think she likes eggs?” I cracked a couple into a pan and reached for a wet wipe. “Look at her. She’ll eat anything. Should we clean her leg now or wait for the vet?” “So we’re taking her, then?” The journey I expected never included catering to and treating an animal. I imagined traveling light, traveling restrictionless. And now there was the weight of a dog. But her wound was running with blood and pus. I too knew she’d perish if released to the streets. Louise finished cooking while I left the van for some air. Then we all ate together. I started the van and drove us across the way from the building with the whale on it. None of us knew it then, but we’d all three end up seeing more of the world than most common travelers or street dogs. Also, we’d name her Guerrera.