We’re heading south to a rehabilitation center near the Mexican border. A 12-seater van carries me, my best friend Lindsey, and kids from our youth group to visit some troubled men who need encouragement or perhaps distraction. These past few months, we’ve arranged a low-budget puppet show and skit to perform, sacrificing our pride for their happiness. High in the sky, the sun shines with blinding intensity. Part of me fears what awaits us at this rehab center; part of me can't wait to see what they're about. Something’s definitely not right with these men—not in the heavy-lidded, exhausted, recovering alcoholic way. I smile and wave like everyone else, yet few of them return the gesture. I stay close to Grace the whole time, never losing sight of Mario, our translator. We watch one guy who watches us with particular interest. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him. I don’t know that he does either. I continually look away to deflect his attention then look back only to have his eyes meet mine. If he’s not watching me, he’s watching Grace. We giggle to mask our discomfort. Maybe he’s just wondering what the hell’s so funny. Try as I might, I can’t look away. There’s something in his demeanor that fascinates me. I can't ignore him. He looks at us with something more than interest, something greater than a longing to hitch a ride out on our van when we leave. He recognizes something, something a grown man and two teenage girls from totally different backgrounds have in common. While our youth leader warns us to "stay away, but don't make him mad" she delivers him the broadest, most insincere of smiles. We perform the puppet show. I may be young and inexperienced, but I’m not too young to know that we’re trying to alleviate a migraine with children’s Tylenol. We proceed with the plan, contorting the insides of our felt-covered, googly-eyed, yarn-haired puppets, making them dance in the open rectangle before us. The strange man’s never far. He wanders about the audience, peeks behind the curtain and confirms his suspicions, nods with a lighthearted grin. We sit on the hot, metal chair with the sign that reads “No tocar” then cover our mouths and our backsides branded by wet, imaginary paint. We butcher Spanish and resort to English as we attempt to change the mood of a single day for this audience. When we look out over the faces of the crowd, the ones who haven’t yet wandered off, even those who look to be high despite the lack of drugs, no one can deny that what we’ve done has worked. We brought something positive to these men. They might sleep better tonight because of us. They might fill their memories with something more than their daily routine in this institution. Alas, the overly interested man alters his face and shoots us a smile that boasts understanding. His awareness is so powerful, it’s almost disturbing. I wonder if that’s why he’s here. As the driver depresses the brake and shifts the van into Drive, the men surround the vehicle. They see us off like parting relatives. The intense guy nods, his silent eyes expressing what words cannot. These men with whom we shared not the slightest connection when we stepped off the van depart from us with warmth, knowing they’ve forever formed a part of our lives and we theirs. As the van lurches forward, increasing the distance from this remote, desert site, a thought pulls me away from the speculative conversation about what’s for dinner. I’ve met men like these before in isolated circumstances back home. I’ve watched them line up at the soup kitchen, collect groceries at the food pantry. I didn’t receive them like I did these men here. I judged them, used them as pawns in a mental game that ranked me higher. I don’t remember meeting anyone like the guy who fixated his stare on us; if I had, I think I’d label him not so much aware as creepy. I wonder why it’s so different for me here in Mexico. And with that comes another thought: maybe they aren’t different. Maybe I am.