When I was 19 years old, a stranger shot me with a gun. The attack happened on Duke University's East Campus in Durham, North Carolina. It was 1:30 a.m. on a night in May. I was walking from my friend's home near the campus to the Greyhound bus station downtown, where I planned to hop a bus to Philadelphia at 2:30.

Too bad I couldn't afford a taxi. My backpack was heavy, I was already sleepy, and the trek would take 40 minutes.

I had passed Baldwin Auditorium at the north end of the campus. As I looped behind Brown Residence Hall, two prowlers stepped out from behind a tree. They were both holding shotguns and stood less than 20 feet away. One spoke to me: "Do you know where the auditorium is?" I was petrified and confused.

A few moments later, I heard a bang, then felt a whoosh of tiny missiles piercing the right side of my buttocks.

I knew I was in trouble. Would they fire again? My questionable strategy was to fall on the ground and pretend I was dead. I hoped they would think they had killed me. There'd be no need to bombard me with more rounds.

Unfortunately, I collapsed in a way that I could not see them. I lay there in a heap, not knowing their next move. Were they creeping closer to pull the trigger again, or were they fleeing the scene of the crime? I worked hard to act like a dead man, trying to betray no motion. It was almost impossible to keep from shivering and avoid taking deep breaths.

After a few minutes, I couldn't bear the agonizing suspense. Were they still nearby? I pulled up my head and upper body to look around. To my relief, they were nowhere in sight.

I struggled to rise, feeling the stings in my flesh grow more excruciating and watching the blood drip from the holes in my jeans. To my surprise, despite the pain, I was able to move. I hobbled to the front door of Brown Residence Hall and entered. Behind a desk, a security guard was on 24-hour duty.

"I hate to alarm you," I told her, "but I've just been shot."

She called 911, and soon an ambulance was hauling me to the hospital.

With the help of X-rays, the emergency room doctor determined that 47 shotgun pellets were lodged in my flesh. They had narrowly missed a major artery, and my life wasn't in danger. Still, the doc thought that if he operated to remove them, he'd risk causing more damage than if he left them in. That's why, to this day, I harbor metal fragments in my body.

I spent just three days in the hospital, but the recovery time was lengthy. Even with painkillers, the suffering was debilitating. It was two months before I could walk right again.

Besides my physical well-being, the other casualty of the mysterious shooting was my long-term dream for the future. For months before the unexpected detour, I had been planning to relocate myself to Northern California. Working as a post office employee and a janitor in a community center, I had saved up enough money to migrate across the country and start a new chapter of my destiny.

But after the assault, I abandoned that vision. The grand adventure I had been planning faded and disintegrated. I was too weak and timid to travel. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome gripped me, squelching my vigor with depression and apathy.

My life path changed forever. Violently diverted from my dream of California at age 19, I pursued adventures on the East Coast and in Europe.

Seven years later, I resurrected my original fantasy and migrated to Northern California. At age 26, I arrived in the paradise that has been my home ever since.

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Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man