The scar watched me grow.

I wasn't just showing off. I was angry ' at home, at school, at everything I couldn't name yet. We stole a metal dustcap and I loaded it into my catapult like a bullet. Just before nine, with the square full of people, I let it go. It smashed into the town clock with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. A woman screamed. The bell rang late that night. For weeks they hunted for whoever did it. I walked past police posters with my hands in my pockets. Years later the hole is still there, sealed badly, a dark pit beside the nine. Every time I see it, I remember how close that shot came to being a body instead of stone.