I was caught.

He didn't say that I was doing something bad. The people towering over me were lecturing me about strangers, but they were strangers, too.

I had two hypotheses: a) the man was lying, and b) the strangers in front of me were being mean. At the time, I thought that the latter was more likely, but I know better now.

My parents had moved to America from their—my—our—home country of Britain, leaving me behind with Auntie. Only days before I would talk to the nice man and the other strangers, we had received mail from my parents. It had a letter for me, a letter for Auntie, and a plane ticket inside the envelope. My letter told me that I was going to join them in 's letter told her when to see me to the plane.

At the terminal, a man came up to me. He told me he wanted to change the world. I wanted to change the world, too.

He smiled and put an anklet on me. It was easy to slip on and off. He told me to leave the anklet on the plane before I got off, but I decided to keep it on because it was pretty and because I had forgotten it was there anyhow.

When I got off the plane, some people—mean people, I thought, and scary—checked me for bombs. I was wondering why they would have to look so closely, because weren't bombs big black balls with strings sticking out to light on fire? Then they found the anklet and called it a bomb, which confused me.

It wasn't until a few years later that I realized that I could have been accused of terrorism, because the man that had given me the bomb was a terrorist. I assume now that the detonator in the anklet had somehow malfunctioned.

I am Katie Tullman, and I was seven when I almost became a suicide bomber.