Some people like to sing bad songs from the eighties, some people like to play chess by themselves so that they can always win and some people like to run away. My best friend Mikey wasn't so much into singing or playing chess, but he liked to run away. I never worried much though because I would be up in the tree house waiting with a pile of superman comic books and salt and vinegar potato chips, and he would pop his head through the hatch, shake away his too-long shaggy bangs, and would say, "check out this fossil I found below the Henderson Bridge." At least something like that, about his adventures.

I only see faded superman when sirens wail outside my house, and the policemen's dogs snap at the bushes. Superman seems to say, "come on, read me". But I can't read superman comics without Mikey, it would be like eating a hamburger without ketchup. So I wait for his head to pop up through the hatch in the tree fort, even though it is dark outside, and an icy wind blows past the towels covering the windows. The policeman's flashlight illuminates my poster of batman's emblem, folding with moisture, and tacked on at a tilt. The flashlight moves to my eyes.

"Hey sport," the policeman says, "I'm really sorry." But I just stare at the new comic book, waiting to be opened. "You're friend, Mikey, we found his body in a ravine."

But I only want the policeman to take the light out of my eyes, because I'm worried that he thinks that he'll think I'm a sissy if I cry. Batman, or Spiderman or the Flash never cried. "I'm sorry, again," says the policeman, and he walks away, taking his glaring light with him.
I pop my bag of salt and vinegar chips open, but they burn and stick in my throat. I throw the foil bag out of the tree house, and watch it try to make up its decision if it will fall on the ground or continue to drift in the wind. I Prop my head up on one hundred comic books. I will never need to leave.