He often caught glimpses of her doodles—furious drawings in dark blue pen. One day, in heavy lines that left grooves on the paper, he made out the head and shoulders of an American prairie buffalo. Ambruzzo slid a finger into his pocket, touching the edge of the nickel that the man in the striped suit had given him. He was in the habit of bringing it everywhere—in his jacket, his shoe, his sock—and tracing the indentation of the buffalo with his fingers. Ambruzzo learned how to roll the nickel back and forth across his knuckles, a sliding silvery fish. During Mass, he’d feel it in the pocket of his dress shirt, rising and falling. It rested lightly there, as soft as the Communion wafer on his tongue.

He still had Mrs. Fabrizio’s shoes, hidden in the corner of his closet. When he was younger, he’d take one out and sleep with it, the heel tucked under his chin. Lately, he’d been pulling it out again, brushing the smooth yellow satin down his chest and across the soft insides of his arms late at night when he couldn’t sleep.

Stampede, his history teacher was saying, stampede. She pulled down maps of the prairie nations. She used a pointer to illustrate movement. She asked Ambruzzo to name the tribes. He knew three: Apache, Chippewa, and Sioux.

After school, he followed Amy Stackenfrach home. He waited in the bushes until dark, then went through her mailbox, eyeing Mr. Stackenfrach’s letters and Mrs. Stackenfrach’s catalogs and magazines. He pocketed the phone bill and climbed a maple tree in the front yard. He watched Amy do her homework on the dining room table, and when she scratched her nose, he touched his too, pretending it was a signal between them.

The next day he asked her what she knew about buffalo.

“They’re really called bison,” Amy said. “The Indians used their tongues for hairbrushes.”

Ambruzzo said that was cool. He asked if he could buy her a milk shake. At the Dairy Queen, he showed her his nickel.

“Oh,” she said. “Neat.” She took it from his hand, licked it, and stuck it to her eyelid. Ambruzzo watched it shining there and felt his stomach drop. He listened to her explain how to turn hides into tipis, horns into powder flasks, lower intestines into tobacco pouches.

“Do you smoke?” she asked him.

Ambruzzo shook his head.

“You should. You look like a gangster.”

Ambruzzo glanced at his hands. They were wide, the fingers short and stubby.

He began to go regularly through the Stackenfrach trash barrels. He discovered that Amy’s father had a penchant for stout, that Amy’s mother paid the bills, and that the entire family relied heavily on Dixie cups. He also found scraps of paper covered with dark blue pen, and on them, the beginnings of love letters scratched out.

Dear Joe: