I followed Jackson into his rotting house and asked for water to drink. The living room was warm and bare, with a few paintings on the wall of tanks and aircraft. I noticed model airplanes around the room—on the TV, on shelves, and one in pieces on the dining room table, which Jackson pointed at as we walked past. He said he was working on airplane models and other projects for his work involving holograms.

He showed me my room in the back, with a single bed and small TV and a window that looked out at the backyard. A desk fan was on, humming quietly. I put my bags on the bed and lay down.

“I’ll be back with a glass of water,” Jackson said.

I kicked off my shoes and closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was there again, standing over me with the glass.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. He sat on the edge of the bed. “All the emptiness and isolation is crippling around here. I feel empty inside with no one to talk to. The place drains me of joy. Every day is gray, like Sunday—you know the song. But you’ll get used to it.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I mean you’ll get used to feeling sad,” he said. “I used to sit in this torn booth at the Regal Café downtown and drink coffee and try to meet people, but nobody wanted to talk to me. One night I was there at three in the morning, and a man and woman sitting across from me kept looking over and whispering. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the napkin dispenser, and I looked goddamn pathetic. My eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, I was unshaven, I looked like I was in pain. Everyone kept glancing in my direction. A construction worker sitting at the counter made eye contact with me and then looked away, shaking his head. It was terrible.”

I didn’t respond. He sniffed hard, then took a deep breath.

“It was like this before, though, sort of. From an early age I didn’t like my face. Remember my uncle, who raised me? He always made dumb remarks about it.”

I didn’t remember, but I nodded anyway and took another drink.

“He sat in his stupid wooden rocking chair every night, drinking and smoking cigarettes. He wore glasses and mumbled to himself. I remember nights in bed, how I imagined myself escaping while he slept beside me, snoring like a goddamn bear. Every so often he had seizures. I’m glad they found him murdered in his bed.”

He apologized. It occurred to me how badly Jackson needed someone to talk to, even first thing in the morning. He changed the subject and began talking about his life with his ex-lover, their arguments about money and having other lovers. I listened to every strange story. I rarely spoke, nodding to confirm I understood what he was talking about. He stared past me as he reeled in sad memories. There were parties and drugs. He grew tired of people.

“You still shoot hoops?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Too out of shape. Plus I never liked it much. You were a great athlete for a while. You were the next Jim Thorpe. You even looked like him. Still do.”

“I guess I lost interest.”

“I was awful,” he said. “I came off the bench in the semifinals at the huge fucking Mabee Center and blew it. I shot an air ball from the baseline. I missed a layup. I head-faked left and airballed a hook shot.”

We were both quiet.

“Speaking of Jim Thorpe, I need to tell you about this software I’m working on,” he said “It’s game development. A sports game, really simple. Everyone loves sports games these days. In this game, you can play sports with Jim Thorpe. You challenge him and compete in basketball one-on-one, hitting at the plate in baseball, tackling and throwing passes in football. The game’s called Thorpe 3D.” He went on to talk in great length about a projector-like device that emitted a hologram of Jim Thorpe. The hologram could have whole conversations, apparently. Jackson said he could make new holograms from any image found on the web. The possibilities were endless.

“Holograms,” I said.

“Yeah, they’re basically lasers that produce high-frequency pulses,” he said. “They’re images that talk and listen to you. We’re working on the voice-activation software at the moment. I’ll show you it soon. It’s downstairs in the basement. The images are incredibly real-looking. You can shoot hoops with them, throw a football.”

“But you can’t touch them?”

“The lasers burn your skin, which is a problem. A friend of mine burned his face trying to strangle a hologram. He was a retired prison guard from the federal reformatory. Anyway, right now I’m working on making holograms of other Indians. I could use your help. When you play three versus three against Jim Thorpe, you need other avatars. I can study your features.”

“You need other Indians,” I said. “This is what you want my help with? Because I’m Native?”

“Pretty much,” he said. He laughed, coughing dust.

THAT NIGHT I WAS UNABLE to fall asleep, too warm, unclear exactly where I was. I had my cell phone, but it wasn’t registering a location. I tried to meditate and concentrate on something peaceful: an open field at dusk, an ocean, a cloudless sky. I needed peace. I didn’t want to think about Rae or my family. I didn’t want to think about anything. I stepped into the hall bathroom and closed the door behind me, locking it. The mirror was smudged. When I turned on the faucet, rusty water splattered out, gurgling in the pipes. I knocked on the faucet a few times with the butt of my hand, but the pipe kept gurgling. The walls were light green and ticked. I felt certain I was being paranoid, but strange houses always made me uneasy at first.