He stopped the UPS truck in the middle of the intersection underneath the dirty green overpass used to carry cars and trains and hopped to the edge of the steps of the truck with the flag around his neck like a cape and was hopping up and down spinning his fist in the air. Jackson Heights. Yellow, blue, and red. Passing car horns honked — in agreement, affirmation, solidarity, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. The packages could wait. He took into the air and began flying back home — he pushed through the clouds, through hours, through light and day and landed on the Islas Galápagos. It was morning. The tide kissed the shore. He was steps from a tortoise. ¿Puedes creer que ganamos? He said. The tortoise said nothing. The truck driver smiled. Anything was possible. Ven a celebrar conmigo, he said, and walked over to the tortoise to lift him up into the air and fly back to New York to celebrate. He lifted. He paused. The tortoise was heavy. The tortoise blinked and looked at him.