The shrooms had been plump, not dried like they normally were in the honey. Rolo gave them these mushrooms. There were pieces of grass stuck to the shrooms, traces of cow-shit. One of the Gatorade bottles they had bought, for Gibrans, when they’d arrived back to the city the next day, had become murky methane-water with floating pieces. Gibrans took the drink and made a smoothie and drank it. He said he tripped balls. Riverbed watched Boston. She distracted him from the accumulating droplets of water on Madea’s skin that he had entranced him earlier. Boston slipped in the waterfall, slamming her head onto the rocks. She had an open wound, and it bled and covered her body in blood. The blood glowed and the people in the falls came over asking what the fuck they were on. Tito, Madea, and Riverbed looked at each other. Their faces did not move. They did not respond. They told the people they were sober. They picked Boston up and managed to somewhat control the bleeding and then they began the forty-five minute walk to the car. Riverbed saw angry-faced tourists following him and he’d get distracted, stopping to stare at them. Madea would have to grab his hand and pull him forward and he’d begin walking again until he noticed a tree and looked behind and saw the tourists again and then his hand would be pulled forward and he’d see the same tree again and then the tourists whose faces were red would make their hair begin to rise and that same tree he had seen would stop him and Madea would pull him again.