Tom’s got a room just bigger than his bed, with a south-facing window that he treasures. Jim knocks, enters. Tom’s lying there staring out at the sky, in a trance.

Wrinkled plaid flannel pajamas.

Three-day stubble of white beard.

Do you live here?

Clear plastic tube, from nostrils to tank under bed. Oxygen.

Bald, freckled pate. Ten thousand wrinkles. A turtle’s head.

Slowly it turns, and the dull brown eyes regard him, focus, blink rapidly, as the mind behind them pulls back into the room from wherever it was voyaging. Jim swallows, uncomfortable as always. “Hi, Uncle Tom.”

Tom’s laugh is a sound like plastic crackling. “Don’t call me that. Makes me feel like Simon Legree is about to come in. And whip me.” Again the laugh; he’s waking up. The bitter, sardonic gleam returns to his glance, and he shifts up in the bed. “Maybe that’s appropriate. You call me Uncle Tom, I call you Nigger Jim. Two slaves talking.”

Jim smiles effortfully. “I guess that’s right.”

“Is it? So what brings you here? Lucy not coming this week?”

“Well, ah…”

“That’s all right. I wouldn’t come here myself if I could help it.” The plastic cracks. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. How are your classes?”

“Fine. Well—teaching people to write is hard. They don’t read much, so of course they don’t have much idea how to write.”

“It’s always been like that.”

“I bet it’s worse now.”

“No takers there.”

Tom watches him. Suddenly Jim remembers his archaeological expedition. “Hey! I went and dug up a piece of El Modena Elementary School. Shoot, I forgot to bring it.” He tells Tom the story, and Tom chuckles with his alarming laugh.

“You probably got some construction material from the donut place. But it was a nice idea. El Modena Elementary School. What a thought. It was old when I went there. They closed it as soon as La Veta was finished. Two long wooden buildings, two stories high with a cellar under each. Big bell in one. The high school got the bell later and the principal, who had been principal of the elementary school years before. Went crazy at the dedication. Had a nervous breakdown right in front of us. Big dirt lot between the two buildings. They were firetraps, we had fire drills almost every day. I played a lot of ball on that lot. Once I singled and stretched it to two, they overthrew and I took third, overthrew again and I went home. They made a play on me there, and I was safe but Mr. Beauchamp called me out. Because he didn’t like me hot-dogging like that. He was a bastard. We used to bail out of swings at the top of the swing. Go flying. I can’t believe we didn’t break limbs regularly, but we didn’t.”