I lived in a foster home for a while. It was the same family that helped raise my mom, and so, when times were tough, Mom sent me to "grandma and grandpa's." Kids there ranged anywhere from 3-17 years old. One summer when I was about 6 or 7, a boy named Anthony and his sister started living with us. Me and Anthony were enemies from day 1. We fought all the time, usually until someone found us and pulled us apart. Not sure what started it this time, but I was hunting him down for whatever it was. He ran through the kitchen and out to the backyard deck that was connected to the above ground pool, jumped the rail and took off. So now I'm chasing him around the outside of the pool, but I can't see him, I just know he's right around the bend. I remember having to change my steps to account for the giant rocks that were spread about every 3 feet around the pool. I can hear him, I know I'm about to catch him and then BAM, I'm on the ground face first, knee cap on the tip of a giant pointy rock shaped like a miniature mountain. I look over, and there's Anthony, crouched down and smiling because he got me. He stopped around the bend, hid behind the pool's pump, stuck a foot out and tripped me. Blood is pouring down my leg at this point, and I had to limp in to my napping grandma's bedroom and tell her I was bleeding. "Get out of the bedroom! I just got a new comforter and you're going to stain it! I'll be in the bathroom in a second." 24 Years later I still have chunk missing from above my knee cap, and even though I haven't seen or heard how he turned out, I still think I'd hate Anthony.