Scars
Growing up, my brother and I had go-carts, and riding them was practically a rite of passage. Every boy who hopped on eventually got burned—literally. The engine was at the perfect height to scorch your forearm if you weren’t careful. But that burn wasn’t something to hide; it was a badge of honor, proof that you’d joined the ranks. We all had the same scar on our forearm, and instead of being embarrassed, we wore it proudly. After all, a scar means you’ve lived through something real. Only the living carry scars—those who don’t survive don’t get them.
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