Scars are proof we have lived, my friend tells me and smiles when I challenge him to a game of show-and-tell. He points to a mark, a tiny boomerang on his chin. At age seven, he thought he could fly from his chair to his bed and landed on the floor. I ask him if that’s all he’s got. He takes off his shirt and a long, jagged scar flashes up his arm, from elbow to wrist. He says this story could be called what he did for love. When his first girlfriend broke up with him, he punched a window. Then he shows me his back. The scars splattered between his shoulders, like stars in a constellation. His father whipped him every day for years. He asks about my scars. I have only one and I grew bangs to hide it. My face feels hot. Here’s my story: I was seventeen. I had chickenpox. I missed the prom. That’s all. When I raise my hand to show him the scar, he stops me and says, That must have hurt.