I had been walking along the train tracks on my way into town, or on my way back home again, it doesn't really matter which, when somehow I found myself in the Orchard. The Orchard of Innumerable Plans, we used to call it. The Orchard was everywhere; it pervaded our thoughts. In those days we were always getting lost in our thoughts, always showing up late for things and saying, by way of explanation, "Oh, I found myself in the Orchard". To smell the vegetable rot of summer was enough to cause us to veer from any plan. Punctuality lost among the trees. That day, the bullet made its presence known to me somehow. It called out to me from amid the mosquitoes and the fresh and wrinkled rotten apples in the tall and matted summer grass. I picked it up and held it, sleek amid the vague and humid hum and sweetness of the summer Orchard.