Rhinelander, Wisconsin. My father, my aunt, and I were cutting small fallen trees to use in a tree house. During one cut, the blade slipped out of its groove and skipped across the back of my hand. I looked down and saw a diagonal slice across the side of my finger. It seemed to take a few seconds before the cut began to fill with blood; before it did I could see down to the bone, and I remember focusing on the red muscle and some tiny white flecks of fat lining the edges of the cut.
The following year, my younger brother was also enlisted to help cut trees, and now we have matching scars; his along the back of his left hand, mine across the first joint of my left index finger.
