Cleaver listened to the girl and nodded. The girls spoke of the future while Riverbed drank rum. He saw the water-fountain at the back of the bar. A painting of a turtle asked people not throw garbage into his pond. Medallas were drunk, and Riverbed gave hugs and high-fives to people from his past. People were surprised he was alive. People appeared whose faces he remembered but whose names he couldn’t. Each time he heard his name, he responded with “¡Mira, cabrón!” o “¿Que hay, papó?” It’d only been maybe three of four years since Riverbed stopped walking the streets of el metro, but he realized that they didn’t know him and he didn’t know them.