The White Legs mongrels that survived and stayed in Zion have begun to pack, roving in tight bands that the Dead Horses were trying to make peace with, generally avoiding but keeping an eye on. But their instincts have gone scrambled from abuse, taking on their old masters' tendency for scavenging and brutality. They abandon their weak. And the pregnant count as weak.

Joshua doesn't know where Sandy lived before that he had veterinary training, but he is steady and authoritative when one of the tribeswomen brings in a heavily wounded bitch that is with pup and dangerously far along. Sandy has learned the tribe's language well but does not know how to ask for a clear space where he can work. He hasn't needed to ask for space yet.

Joshua stays close so he can translate as Sandy says what he needs, no matter that there are a handful of multilingual tribesmen who could offer their aid. There's just something about the way Sandy runs his hands gently along the wounded dog's face, down her snout over her ear and to the ruff of her neck, his low mahogany voice speaking quietly, steadily, constantly, as the dog's flanks suck in and out hard and fast but she does not fight him, the wild flame in her eye pulling back as she lets him gingerly inspect her. She gives a weak growl as he feels at her swollen quaking belly, and only she and Joshua can hear the slightest rise in Sandy's voice as he continues speaking.

"You know she doesn't understand you," Joshua points out, needlessly, an uncharacteristically awkward move borne out of this strange feeling of incompetence.

Sandy shakes his head slightly, eyes still on the dog under his hands. "She may not know the words," he says, "but she understands me just fine."