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your trainer.”
    â€œYou think it’s in my head?”
    â€œYou ever read about the major league catcher who had trouble returning the ball to the pitcher? There was also a case of a basketball player who suddenly started throwing bricks from the foul line. Athletes often act out their emotional problems athletically.”
    â€œSo what’s my problem?” He heard his voice from a distance, tossing out a challenge.
    â€œI don’t know. You haven’t told me.”
    â€œYou’re the doctor.”
    The doctor stood up. “That’s all we have time for today.”
    â€œJust like that?” He was sorry it was over.
    Dr. Gould said, “When the bell rings, time’s up.”
    Hubbard was waiting outside the door. Sonny wondered if he had tried to eavesdrop. “So, Doc, what’s he say?”
    â€œThat’s private, between Sonny and me.”
    â€œI’m paying you.”
    â€œTalk to Sonny.” He walked around Hubbard and left.
    Hubbard walked into the bedroom. “So?”
    Sonny shrugged and climbed into bed with the remote. Hubbard stared at him and shook his head before he left. The baseball game was still on. Sonny watched the catcher throw the ball back to the pitcher. He remembered reading about the catcher who suddenly couldn’t throw the ball back to the pitcher. Guy was a head case. Am I a head case? His stomach hurt. He pushed the thought away.
    â€œLet us chant,” said Red Eagle, slipping silently into the room. He might or might not be a real Indian, but he moved like one. He was sprinkling powders into the steel bowl.
    â€œNot now. And get that dung out of here.”
    â€œYou had time for the white man’s healer. Do you think his medicine is stronger than the medicine of the Creator?”
    Sonny grunted and rolled over on his stomach.
    He dozed for a while. The TV in the living room woke him up. A western. He could hear Indian war whoops and gunfire. Only Boyd was stupid enough to watch that here. He walked out into the living room.
    â€œWhere’s Malik’s laptop?”
    â€œIn his room, I guess. But he don’t like—”
    â€œRight.” He found it blinking on Malik’s bed, two animated kick boxers, naked women, whaling each other on the screen saver. He took it back to his room.
    It took him a while to make his way through the porn sites that Malik had programmed to pop up at first touch. There was a New Mail message at his public e-mail address, [email protected], from the Warrior Angel.
    Dear George Harrison Bayer,
    Getting closer, but not moving as the Hawk flies. Too dangerous. Hang on.
    Warrior Angel
    How did he know about the Hawk?
    It was in the book The Tomahawk Kid , by Martin Malcolm Witherspoon, a book that told too much and nothing at all. Why had he let that fat black owl rip him off, write a book that exposed him but didn’t set him free?
    Where was Marty now?
    He heard Boyd and Malik talking, then Malik’s heavy steps toward the bedroom door. Sonny back-paged to one of the porn sites.
    â€œHey, man, whatchoo doon’ wit’ my…” Malik came around behind Sonny just as the screen filled with flesh. He grinned. “Feelin’ better, huh?”
    Â 
    Food had no taste. Time stood still, a puddle of stagnant water. Hubbard had a treadmill brought up to the hotel room, and Sonny jogged on it for hours at a time, trying to imagine himself on a road in the Res. Then he’d sit in front of the TV for hours, watching the screen turn into a kaleidoscope of meaningless colors.
    Dr. Gould came again. The sessions brokeloose old memories. Moving from the Reservation near Sparta in Upstate New York to Boston to Minneapolis to Santa Fe to Santa Cruz, California, as a kid while his mother tried to sell the jewelry she designed and made. Always coming back broke to the Res and his great-uncle Jake’s auto junkyard. Hiding in the backs of old wrecked cars,