Now his eyes were watering. That I could not stand. I grabbed his arm and summoned my most encouraging voice. “But it might have a good ending! And then wouldn’t it all be worth it?”

“Yes,” he said. “I guess it would.”

Silence thickened between us. Sensing a change of heart, Barney pushed his ball into my hand. I drew my arm back and hurled a long hard overhand.

“Good one,” said Grandpa approvingly. “You don’t throw like a girl.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry.”

“You’d better be. Look! He caught it.” I made a fuss over Barney on his return. He had already forgotten what he’d done, but accepted the praise as his due.

My grandfather and I stood up at the exact same time. He snapped on the leash. “See?” he said with satisfaction. “No harm in a little strategic rule breaking.”

On the way back, we took a detour between the yellow shrubs past the statue of Serenity. She sits on a low base, looking out over Sixteenth Street. When I was little, I was terrified of this statue. She used to appear in my dreams. Later on I made a point of visiting her. Still, I always approached from her right side, where she has a complete hand. The one on the left is gone; the wrist ends in a stump. Grandpa told me Meridian Hill used to be the most dangerous park in the city. Someone back then must have broken off her hand just for the fun of it.

It wasn’t only her hand that was missing. Most of her face was gone. The eyes were blanks, and where the nose and lips should have been there was only pitted stone. It was a shame, because you could tell she used to be beautiful, and her gown still was, gathered at the waist and flowing between her knees. Her ruined features gave her a surprised look, but she had her bare feet planted apart in a proud, strong pose as if she didn’t know she was damaged or else had decided not to care.

“Did you know there is a statue identical to this one in Luxembourg?” asked Grandpa, yanking Barney away from the pedestal, where he was lifting his leg. I sat down on the edge to rest.

“You mean with her face and hand gone?”

“No, silly. Same subject, by the same artist. It was bought at the Paris Exhibition in nineteen hundred. Apparently the sculptor used Isadora Duncan as a model.”

“Why do you love facts so much, Grandpa?”

“Do I?” He sounded pleased that someone had noticed. “I guess because the more you know about something, the more interesting it becomes.”

“But you don’t like rules.”

“Not when they’re invented to keep us in line. Or show who’s boss.”

“To stop people from attacking statues, you mean?”

He laughed. “It’s petty rules I don’t care for. Small-minded officiousness.”