“Yeah. She’s pretty, but she pulls tricks like this just to piss off her mother. There’ll be hell to pay down here tonight. Her mother’s one of those New Age hippies with a short fuse. Can you imagine hanging a name like Trinity on a child? Why do people do things like that, Bobo? Do they think they’re God? Anyway, she’ll get her little ass torn up, but she won’t cry a drop. Not one. And one of these days, when she gets old enough and her mother’s off at work, she’ll pack her bags and catch the bus to the city and that’ll be that. She’ll just disappear. Probably wind up as a hooker on Forty-second Street.”

“Does she have any playmates?” I asked.

Sammy laughed cynically. “Good God, Bobo, there’s barely any adults left around here and almost no children. I think of her as the only one, the last of us all.” He shook his head again. “I know how she feels.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

I could see a shadow pass over Sammy’s face. He seemed far off, lost.

“I’ve been there,” he whispered after a moment. He shuddered suddenly, then he said, “Aw, shit. Come on.”

We went to the back of the room where Sammy worked. A stained towel was draped over a small piece of granite on one of the tables. Sammy glanced at me, grinned, and then pulled the towel away in a ceremonious sweep.

I was surprised. It was not a finished figure, not defined or polished, but there was something about it that could have been inspired by Amy, something in the soul of the stone that was her.

“That’s good,” I told him. “Very good.”

Sammy touched the face. His hand trembled. “You like it? I mean, you really like it?” he asked eagerly.

“I do, yes.”

Sammy pulled his hand away and fished a cigarette from the package in his shirt pocket and lit it. He was watching my face.

“You know who it is?” he asked.

“Amy,” I said.

I saw a flicker of shock leap into his eyes. He drew from his cigarette and looked at the face.

“You can tell?” he asked.

“I can. It’s her, isn’t it?”

Sammy nodded and touched the face again with his fingers. The look of shock was still in his eyes.

“Nobody’s ever been able to recognize what I was working on, Bobo.” He played nervously with his cigarette. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

“Well, you know…”

“Look, she’s a beautiful woman,” I said. “I guess I’ve sketched her face a thousand times over the years. I don’t blame you at all. Are you going to do anything else with it?”