As a child with cousin Mishka, we built ourselves a self-shot from a piece of wood, rubber and clamp. They shot with peanuts on canned banks, on an old pot, and then Mishka noticed the plane in the sky and decided to shoot in his direction. The plane was apparently undergoing a tropopause at that time. There was an inversion trace from him, and we were terribly scared that we had shot down the plane, Mishka was torn, because. He felt sorry for the plane, and I also grieved him that we would be taken to prison and we would walk there with our legs on our feet. His grandmother came out, listened to the story, explained that everything was okay with the plane, this pilot just turned away from the mushroom peas, but because of the fact that he was in the aircraft. Mishka is very guilty to the pilot and the passengers, then the guilt he can only redeem becoming a Timurov, for which he has to do only good deeds, and first to help grandmother to drag water into the barrel, and I am obliged to help him, because of the fact. It is his fault that he did not stop his fellow from doing evil. In general, we threw out our own shots, and the responsibility not only for ourselves, but also for the comrades next to us was caught up for the rest of our lives.