Dear Marcus: A Letter to the Man Who Shot Me

The idea to write to you was not an easy one.
The scar from where the bullet entered my back is still there.

Jerry McGill was thirteen years old, walking home through the projects of Manhattan’s Lower East Side, when he was shot in the back by a stranger. Jerry survived, wheelchair-bound for life; his assailant was never caught. Thirty years later, Jerry wants to say something to the man who shot him.

I have decided to give you a name.
I am going to call you Marcus.

With profound grace...