I remember the blood running down my adolescent finger. A slip of a pocketknife earned me that rite of passage for all young boys: a trip to the emergency room. There I would receive my merit badge of honor—stitches. What I remember most about the trip is where the doctor placed the anesthetic. The long needle was placed inside the wound. Why he would try to kill me in order to numb the pain was unclear, but there it was, the long shaft of metal squarely inside the cut. It hurt. And it healed.
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