For three days Mark has been hiding in Gil's tree house. For three days the police have been searching for him.

"What, no meat?" said Mark. "I am getting tired of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

"This is the only thing I can bring you without someone getting suspicious," said Gil. "Be glad I can get you anything to eat. I can't believe you are still hiding here. You have to go home before we both get into trouble."

"No way, I am never going back there. Dad hates me. He thinks I am the biggest loser in the world. I will show him, I will go home when I am sure he has noticed my absence; when he starts to worry about me."

"Yeah, like that will happen," Gil said. "You could be living in this tree house a long time if you are waiting for your father to cry over your disappearance."

Twelve year old Mark thought about this for a moment and said, "Have you seen my mother? Do you think she misses me?"

"I know she is worried, because I overheard her talking to my mother. But I also know that your mom and dad both went to the bar last night anyway. I saw their car out front when I rode by on my bike. What do you think you are going to accomplish by staying away from home? You know you are going to be in big trouble when you do return, don't you?"

Mark chewed on the sandwich before answering his friend. "I am beginning to think this isn't such a good idea, but now I am in too deep. I have to figure a way out of this situation before someone finds me here."

Mark knew he needed a plan, a brilliant plan that could get him out of this situation and back into his own house and bedroom, and quickly. It was rough sleeping on the hardwood floor of the tree house. The sleeping bag didn't offer much padding for his skinny body. It certainly wasn't as soft as his bed, and besides, the chilly night made it even more uncomfortable. He needed to act quickly.

"Bring me some razor blades next time you come up here," said Mark.

"Why, you planning to shave or something?"

"No, but I have an idea how I might get myself out of this fix and maybe get Dad's attention at the same time."

"Gil," Mark said, "I am going to need you to help me a little bit."

"So what else is new," he said. "You get into trouble and I bail you out. This is getting to be a broken record. Maybe you need to start thinking things through a bit before you run off half-cocked."

"Yeah, well it seemed like a good idea at the time," said Mark.

Gil jabbed his friend in the ribs, causing Mark to wince and fake doubling over. This action gave Mark another idea.

Later that night Gil returned to the hideout and he brought a pack of razor blades. "What are you up to? Am I going to regret having helped you out?"

"Nope," said Mark. "But I do need you to do one more little thing for me. Punch me in the eye."

"What? Punch you in the eye? You'll get a black-eye for sure, if not something worse. You know I have a mean right hook."

"Just do it!"

"You asked for it," he said. Gill pulled back his right arm and hauled off and struck his friend in the face.

"Ouch, you took too much pleasure in that," said Mark looking up from the floor of the tree house. He shook his head, trying to focus on his friend. He reached up, touching the tender cheekbone as it began to swell. "That should do the trick. It ought to be nice and purple by morning."

"I'm outta here," said Gil as he climbed down the ladder. "I don't think I want to know what you are up to. That way I don't have to make up any stories."

Early in the morning, Mark crept down the ladder and under cover of darkness went down the street to his own house. He knew his father would be awake, sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. He would more than likely be working the daily crossword puzzle too.

As Mark approached the back door he started to make noise, stumbling into the back hall he fell through the doorway. His father, startled, jumped and then ran over to his son.

"What happened to you? Where have you been? Who did this to you?" His father began to examine Mark's face, noticing the bruised eye and the swelling cheekbone. Then he saw his son's arms and the blood that stained his sleeves.

Mark's mother came running into the room and seeing her son sprawled on her kitchen floor began to panic. "What happened? Call 911 for help."

The sirens could be heard in the distance and Mark began to worry that he had overdone things a bit. The black-eye was bad enough, but all those cuts on his arms and legs that he had haphazardly inflicted with the razor blades may have been too much. He began to run through the script he had prepared for this moment.

"They kidnapped me," he said. "Two men grabbed me and put me in the trunk of their car. They have been driving around town with me in the back. They gagged me so I couldn't cry out." Mark continued to tell his story, fabricating a fantastic escape to the police.

The EMT's treated Mark's cuts and his bruised eye and then released him into his father's care. When the emergency crews left, Mark turned to his father and saw a glimmer of love there. Mark said, "It's been quite a time for me, I think I need to go to bed and get some sleep."

"Yes, do that, we can talk later, after you have rested," said his father.

Turning to walk up the stairs to his bedroom, Mark watched his father and for a brief moment felt loved. He saw concern in his father's eyes. That made it all worthwhile.