We sat in silence for a few moments, honoring the gravity of Benny’s wayward path. The wake of destruction was long and twisting. The money that had been wasted in trying to help him was alone monumental to think about. I could only imagine what his last stay at the rehab in Newberg had cost them.

“He should really come home,” Mr. Reger said. “We just want to know he’s okay. He should check in.”

“If I see him, I’ll be sure to pass on the message,” I said.

“I thought you might know where to look,” he said, pushing gently. “We don’t even know where to start. Maybe it wouldn’t be too much trouble to do a little looking around . . . I don’t know what I’m asking.”

Mr. Reger sat slumped in his ancient chair. A defeated general, the only good kind. He turned his eyes away and stared at the blank television set. It was a lot to put on me, but I said I’d do my best.

It should have been his brothers looking for him, but his brothers were probably sick of trying. They’d already found him in every shitty situation you could think of. Jail. Sleeping under bridges. Bleeding in the street. They didn’t have the time for it anymore. Benny had long ago used up their patience.

That didn’t leave too many people for the job, I guessed. Benny rarely had a girlfriend anyone knew about. He didn’t have a job, and thus no coworkers. It was possible he didn’t even live in town anymore. We didn’t know. He might have gone to Seattle or San Francisco or Montana and gotten stuck there. If he was in town, he had drifted so deep into his own galaxy that finding him wasn’t such a simple proposition.

The last time I’d seen him was almost two years before. We’d both lived in the same neighborhood at the time, and every once in a while we made the effort to hang out. He came over one day holding his striped rubber ABA ball, looking generally rattled and unkempt. His hair was a mess, he was sweating yellow ooze, and his eyes were bugged, but I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t my business. We walked over to the covered court at the junior high school and shot around and bullshitted.

Benny had never been a great player, but that day he was truly terrible. His hands seemed almost detached from his arms, slapping together full seconds after the ball had passed him by. His shots only vaguely arced toward the rim. He had his excuses, but he wasn’t really bothered by the lousy efforts, and neither was I. We were there more to relax and catch up than to play ball.