The mechanic served us empanadas. The car was dying, according to the thick smoke from the engine. The mechanic started to beat on the engine with a wrench, cursing in Spanish. In a sort of broken English, the people that lived with the mechanic told us about the condors. They said that they live high up in the rocks and steal sheep and babies and attack grown men and to demonstrate one of the older boys held up a hand that was missing three fingers. There was a soft cheese in the middle of our fried dough. The empanadas were delicious. The car let out a deathly scream and then died. All four tires fell off, the battery exploded, and even worse, all of the automatic window buttons stopped functioning. When we had finished our empanadas we left on foot, walking and watching the rocks carefully for signs of feathers and talons.