Dusty Birge showed up to high school on Monday with a cast, hobbling around on a pair of crutches. He had shot himself while squirrel hunting. According to Dusty, his safety had been on and his finger was off the trigger when his .22 had spontaneously discharged, sending a bullet through the top of his boot and out of the arch of his foot.

Dusty played on the baseball team. His tiny wiry frame could barely swing a baseball bat. Still, Dusty attended tryouts, workouts, and practices year-round only to sit the bench during the season, hoping for a chance to pinch run.

Dusty brought his boot to school and kept it in his locker. In between classes a large crowd would assemble in the hallway and examine the bloodstained leather. People stood in awe, fingering the small tear in the tongue where the bullet had entered. Dusty beamed, cradling his trophy. People pushed and shoved to get close enough to touch the boot. After listening to the pleas of his audience, Dusty passed the boot around. A frenzy of greedy hands descended on the prize, snatching it from one another, until the Principal came around to break up the crowd and send us to class.

For a week Dusty was somewhat of a celebrity at school. He was bombarded with questions regarding his hunting accident. He claimed that it hadn’t even hurt. He just limped back home and had his Dad drive him to the hospital. He wrapped a towel around his foot so he wouldn’t stain his Dad’s truck.

After a few weeks Dusty’s fame wore off. His cast was removed and he stopped using crutches. He stopped bringing his bloodstained boot to school. We stopped gathering around his locker at lunchtime. Bleach-blonde cheerleaders who had flirted with Dusty the week before, passed by him in the hallways without offering even a nod or a glance. Dusty was back at baseball practice.

Things hadn’t gone back to normal for long when Dusty showed up to school on crutches one Monday with another cast on his right foot. He had shot himself in the foot once more.