I swore I would never break down in Blythe again. This time I wasn’t alone. It was the last day of a hot July summer, and I was speeding through the desert of the Palo Verde Valley that tethers California to Arizona. I raced the morning sun before it settled into its noontime post in the sky. I was desperate to miss the 106 degrees that had started to overheat my rental mini-SUV. I had Toby, my 12-year-old pit bull mix in the back, wrapped in a diaper and seemingly desiccating in the back seat, his protruding ribcage a reminder of our numbered days together.