When I was a teen, we lived in a declining neighborhood. One day a bullet whizzed over my bed and went through a poster on my wall. The police said it could have come from anywhere in the hills and couldn’t [or wouldn’t] trace it. That incident was the last straw that convinced my parents that it was time to move.
Two years ago I had to have some repairs done to my truck after someone shot it with an arrow. The broadhead (it happened during deer season) penetrated the left rear corner panel just above the fuel tank and did about $1200 worth of damage. As near as I can figure, someone was hunting in the soybean farm up the street and shot at a deer that was on or near the rise of the hill at the front of the farm.