Ignition.

We settled in Chapel Hill the summer after fourth grade. I hadn't many friends in Florida, so I wasn't really losing much in moving, but I also didn't bring anything with me but a few weird hobbies like comic books and collecting shells.

I never was quick to make friends. When Pete and Todd, brothers from three houses down the street, cozied up to me, I was relieved.

They were a bit olive-skinned, with thick, curly heads of hair. I didn't know ethnicities. They seemed exotic.

We lighted model rockets in the baseball park behind our houses. Really, they were just fireworks, with time-delayed stage-engines of solid fuel that gave off huge plumes of sparks. When the engines burned out, you'd have to find where they were plummeting vulnerably to earth and save them before they fell into a tree, or a creek, or the road.

And that's what Pete and Todd and I did for a month and a half. Ignite rockets, watch their fiery trails, and chase them down before they crashed to earth. It was repetitive, but it was fun.

Then it stopped. And for maybe two weeks I didn't hear from either Pete or Todd. School was getting close, and while the weather was just as hot, the days seemed to be getting a bit shorter.

Todd called one day and said I should come over. I don't remember the reason, but I do remember being eager to visit someone.

I walked the three doors down to his house. Their house was yellowish and sat in a small copse. I rang the bell. He opened the door. He punched me in the stomach – the first time I ever had been punched. He laughed and closed the door. I staggered out onto the landing and went home and didn't tell anyone.