We found an extension cord and turned it on, the light blinking, but nothing happened when he pushed the button to copy. I just watched him as he went through a little checklist of possible issues, each time whispering, “No, okay, no,” and moving on, opening up the machine, poking around.

Just as I was about to suggest that we quit, Zeke said, “Oh, wait!” I watched him wriggle his fingers inside the copier, and then he gently, little by little, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, folded like an accordion, as if the copier had done origami, and then he handed the sheet to me. I smoothed it out. It was the ass of one of my stupid brothers.

“It was just jammed in there,” he said, smiling.

Now Zeke placed his palm down on the glass and made a copy, which took a while, and then there was his hand, all the lines running across his palm. It worked. I knew this didn’t make Zeke a genius, but it did make him smarter than my brothers, the only boys I spent time around, so I felt like I’d made a good choice for the summer.

“If I moved my hand all over the glass,” he said, “it would be like an animation. Like a cartoon.”

“But we’d need some kind of machine to flip the pages,” I said. “Or a stop-motion camera, right?”

“I guess,” he said, a little disappointed.

Still, we spent the next hour wandering around the garage, picking out items to place on the glass of the copier. We liked how, if the object was too big, it distorted the image, made it seem unreal. Then I found an old Vogue magazine and tore out a photo of Cher, her long black hair and smoky eyeliner. I pushed the button, but then started to drag the photo across the glass. The copy that the machine spat out showed half of Cher’s face as it regularly appeared, but then the rest of the image smeared across the page, streaking, like she was melting sideways.

“Oh, that’s cool!” Zeke said, impressed. He ripped out a page that featured some random model, and then made a kind of zigzag with the image as the light emanated from the machine. It wasn’t super clear, but the result was trippy, slightly ominous.

“Can you make art with a copy machine?” I asked him.

He smiled. “Maybe,” he replied. “Why not?”

We were teenagers in the middle of nowhere in Tennessee. We didn’t know about Xerox art or Andy Warhol or anything like that. We thought we’d made it up. And I guess, for us, we had.

I pressed one side of my face against the glass, and the result made me look like some baby in the womb, my features all flattened out.