I glance at Tibaquete. Anxiety stares from his eyes too, but for different reasons. Flying above the trees is not his element. He belongs beneath the leaves, a Yuqui Indian needing neither compass nor roadmap to go and return. As we bank into a tight turn his fingers dig into my knee in fear. I look at him and smile. A grin breaks his stoic face- a gaping hole where teeth used to be. His fingers relax, his hand remains, its warmth feeling good in the drafty cockpit.