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pictures after finding the one of my mother. Things are starting to make more sense and no sense at all. All I know is that I have to take the whole stack of pictures from his computer desk. I put them into the folder in my backpack. There’s other stuff on his desk, too. Lists of things that have to do with databases and hacking into computers like the one at the bank where Dad works. I grab that stuff and then add a handful of computer disks lying on the desk. I zip the pocket tight and put the backpack over my shoulder. Once I get ridof the tools it won’t be that heavy to carry. But I don’t take out the rest of the tools I’ve borrowed from school. Not yet. I kneel down and make sure that my sneakers are tied and double knotted. I’m not going to change my plan about getting to the outside phone booth near the park entrance where I can call Ms. Shabbas, but I am going to add one thing to it.
    I walk out the back door toward the toolshed. I’ve looked at that yard so many times from my window, but I’ve never been in it before. It is his place and he told me to stay away from it. Not that he needed to. Until now I’ve tried to avoid anyplace where he might be.
    There are decorative stones on the ground that used to be part of the abandoned overgrown garden. They are white and round and the size of golf balls. I pick up three of them. I’m a good runner, maybe the best in the school, but I’m no pitcher. I might miss on the first throw.
    But I don’t. The stone sails through my upstairs window with a crash that is as satisfying to me as it is loud. I don’t need to throw another stone. He’s heard it, and he comes out of the toolshed moving so fast that it scares me. He doesn’t move like an old man but like somekind of big cat. He looks in all directions and seems to be sniffing the air. But he doesn’t see me or smell me hiding behind the cedar bush next to the shed. He stares at the house and then lopes across the yard and goes inside.

    I’m counting under my breath as I dart into the toolshed. When I get to a hundred, I tell myself, I’ll turn and run no matter what. It is so clean and neat inside, the shelves are spotless, the tools hung on Peg-Boards. It’s mechanical. It doesn’t look as if a human being has ever been in here. Ten, eleven, twelve. I see that the back wall is at a funny angle. I try to push it and it moves like a door and then sticks. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I pull out the crowbar and pry it open. There’s a small room behind it with a dirt floor. But its not just dirt. In the middle of the floor is something that looks like a ring. Twenty-two, twenty-three. I kneel by the ring, brush dirt away, and see that it is connected to a trapdoor that is held shut by a hinged metal strap that fits over a thick metal staple. I pull out the pin that holds it shut. Then I take a deep breath and pull on the ring. The door is heavy, but it slowly begins to move. Dirt hisses off as I lift it. There’s another door, a metal grating fastened with a padlock. But I can look downthrough it into the dark room hollowed out like a cave under the toolshed.
    â€œHello,” I hiss. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.
    A hand reaches up to touch the grating. I recognize that hand.
    â€œDad,” I whisper. Our fingers touch, link briefly before he falls back. My heart is pounding. It’s really him! He’s alive. There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t make my voice come out. And in the back of my mind I remember that I must keep counting. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three. I swallow the lump in my throat and manage to ask the question that I have to ask, even if I’m afraid of what the answer might be.
    â€œWhere’s Mom?”
    â€œShe’s here,” he answers. His fingers push mine away. “Run.”
    â€œIs she all right? Are you all right?”
    â€œRun, Molly,” he says again.