The plane arrived over the West Coast of Puerto Rico. Riverbed saw the forests of the island. It saddened him because the island seemed like a dog with sarna, mange or scabbies. He remembered seeing the same forests when he was a child headed to New York; the same forests with more vegetation. Housing developments and scarred mountainsides corrupted the beauty he remembered. He laid his head on Cleaver’s lap. The plane landed. The passengers clapped. They shouted, “ˇVamos pa la Perla!”