I knew a boy named Adam, “Adam with the scar” when we’d decipher which one we were talking about. Adam with the scar was cool because he had a dad who was a doctor, who gave him the scar. The scar looked like a raised X at the bottom of his throat. I know there’s a name for that hollow section that usually holds perfume, about the size of my thumb, but I don’t know its name. Adam’s scar was right at that spot so every time you’d talk to him, your eyes would wonder to the skin that was different, wondering how it would feel to the touch. The story goes that one night Adam stopped breathing suddenly and his doctor dad had no choice but to perform a tracheotomy on him. I remember asking my mom what a tracheotomy was; her explanation described cutting a hole to breathe through. I imagined Adam gasping for air with a look of horror in his eyes while his dad threw him down on the kitchen floor, reaching for a sharp kitchen knife that just butchered a turkey. The rumor was that a knife was not used but a pen. We all thought Adam was cool because his dad saved his life with a swift stab of a pen to his throat.