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and became semi-erect, creating additional angst.
    Adding to this misery was the fact that it was a hot day for early October, and the sun was heating the attic to a broil. Every pore in my face was leaking, causing little droplets of sweat to boil up on my skin until they began a maddening roll down my face, dropping in succession from my nose and chin, or rolling down my neck in a ticklish torture. Soon my shirt was soaked and flush against my chest. My jeans had a ring of sweat several inches past my waist. What sweat didn’t drip off eventually ran down my legs and into my tennis shoes, which I was sure would squish if I ever got the chance to walk again.
    My legs began to cramp above the knees. The calves followed suit. I couldn’t move to rub them for fear of making the rafters creak and causing Big Frank to send three or four salvos into the ceiling. Eventually, the cramps subsided, but I could no longer control my bladder. It is miserable and humiliating to piss your pants when you are nearly fifteen years old, but it was such a relief that I was willing to ignore the shame. My jeans, shorts, socks and tennis shoes were now soaked, and the stench of urine was added to that of must and dust.
    I prayed to God to get me out of Big Frank’s house alive. And I made a solemn vow that if he allowed me to escape, to live and again breathe fresh air, I would repay his gracious and divine intervention by strangling my best friend Travis.
    Then my mouth and nostrils were dry and my legs were starting to spasm. Below me, Frank was farting in his sleep. I was getting woozy, like you do when you stand up too quick, but I couldn’t shake the feeling and I was forced to hold on to the crossbeam, resting my head in the crease of my elbow. I hoped that if I lost consciousness and fell through the ceiling that I’d land directly on Big Frank and render him unconscious just long enough to get out of the house.
    I didn’t know if I had been in the attic four hours or four days when Big Frank finally awoke. I think I had actually dozed for a while, or possibly passed out. Either that or I was loopy from dehydration. However long it had been, it was apparently longer than Big Frank had wanted to sleep. I heard the bed springs squeak and him say, “Oh, shit.” This was followed by both heavy footfalls and profanity. “Why did you let me sleep so long, goddammit,” he yelled at Travis as he ran down the steps. I heard the toilet flush and the back door slam. It was another minute before the truck pulled away, and several more before Travis pushed open the attic door and the beam of his light entered the attic.
    “I hope you’re not going to hold me personally responsible for that,” Travis said.
    “Just who else would I hold personally responsible?” I yelled. “This was all your idea, remember?”
    “Jesus, Mitch, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was coming back. He said he . . .” Travis shined his light over me. “Man, you look awful. Did you piss yourself or something?”
    Travis struggled to get up through the hatch but seemed to know better than to ask for my help. I lowered myself to one of the one-by-eights and sat, massaging my thighs and calves while Travis gathered up the box of treasures he had found. “Come on,” he said, slapping at my shoulder. “You can jump in the shower, and I’ll throw your clothes in the washer. Then we’ve got to hide this stuff.”
    “You better leave it up here,” I said, struggling to get back to my feet. “If Big Frank catches you with it, you’re dead meat.”
    “He’ll never find it. I know the perfect hiding place.”
    I started to ease myself down the hatch. “Where’s that?”
    “Your house.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    In the months that passed after my near-death experience in Big Frank’s attic, my perspective on the entire ordeal changed. Rather than viewing it for what it had actually been—another insane situation into which I had allowed Travis to con me—I began