I remember, once, as a child, I fell out of a tree.

Or I was supposed to, anyway. The limb was breaking, the bark peeling away so you could see the insides snapping.

I was a good 20 feet up, I knew I would've been hurt pretty bad if I fell.

This memory is foggy; as most human memories are, but I remember staring at the branch in a sort of horrific daze; hoping, pleading, willing, it not to break.

And it didn't. Slowly, I watched as it sewed itself back together, right back to the bark.

That's when I knew I wasn't like other children.