Our feet and legs could ask two things: quit or walk. Anna’s feet told us very plainly to quit. She complained in the high-pitched voice of a twelve-year-old. “I can’t do it anymore.” Tears followed, so I took her arm. Her feet were fat potatoes. Sleep had not diminished the inflammation. Sandra, Alberto and I stood around her, not knowing what to do because we had only walked about twenty-five minutes. We could return to the refuge, rest and leave at noon and walk until about 6:00 pm or we could leave her there under the care of a doctor. That meant she would not walk for a day or two. Or we could continue with reduced speed and distance.