I really liked this story, "War Dances" by Sherman Alexie, in the current New Yorker. Here's a passage in which the narrator wanders through a hospital looking to borrow a warm blanket for his father, who's just had his foot amputated:
And then I saw him, another Native man, leaning against a wall near the gift shop. Well, maybe he was Asian—lots of those in Seattle. He was a small man, pale brown, with muscular arms and a soft belly. Maybe he was Mexican, which is really a kind of Indian, too, but not the kind that I needed. It’s hard to tell sometimes what people are. Even brown people guess at the identity of other brown people.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” the other man said.
“You Indian?” I asked.
“My first wife was Spokane. I hated her.”
“My first wife was Lummi. She hated me.”
We laughed at the new jokes that instantly sounded old.
“Why are you in here?” I asked.
“My sister is having a baby,” he said. “But don’t worry, it’s not mine.”
“Ayyyyyy,” I said and laughed.