The scar on my stomach comes from falling out of the apple trees one hot July day when I was five at that farm. I’d been collecting hot stones by the gate pitching them down the farm road, hoping to hit some other family’s station wagon. I then took to the trees, fists still full of pebbles, couldn’t grab the branch and keep the stones, too -- chose, fell, sending screams into the field and the farmhouse people came running in the distance.