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suggested that we make a little campfire right there on the floor of the treehouse.
    â€œYou can’t have a fire in a treehouse,” Andy said. “It’s made out of wood. It’ll burn.”
    â€œNot if we make a ring of snow around it.”
    â€œThe snow will just melt.”
    â€œYeah, and the floor will get wet so it can’t burn.And if it gets out of control, we can just throw more snow on it.”
    Andy wasn’t so sure about that, but I can be very convincing. My position was highly logical, and it is hard to argue with logic.
    We climbed down the tree and gathered some dry twigs and branches and carried them back up to the treehouse and piled them in the middle of the floor. We scooped a few armloads of snow off the roof and packed it into a ring around the wood, then stuffed some candy wrappers and the Sunday comic section into the twigs.
    â€œI don’t know about this,” Andy said.
    â€œIt’ll be okay,” I said, pulling a book of matches from my jacket pocket. You never know when you might need a fire. One of my all-time favorite stories is To Build a Fire by Jack London. A man in the Arctic wilderness falls through the ice into a stream and gets his legs soaked. He has to build a fire fast or he will freeze to death. I won’t tell you what happens in the end, but it is very interesting.
    I lit the fire.
    At first it was very exciting because the Butterfinger wrappers burned fast and flaming bits of paper floated up and started landing where they shouldn’t. We quickly stomped them out, and the fire settled down and started to behave itself. Once it calmed down, Andy took off his wet boot and sock and put his foot near the fire.
    â€œThat feels good,” he said.
    After a few minutes it started to get pretty smoky. Some of it went out the windows and door, but most of the smoke wanted to hang around. As long as we kept our faces close to the floor we were okay. Andy stretchedout on his back, toasting his foot like a marshmallow. He was on his third Butterfinger.
    â€œY’know, the Butterfingers are just my first present for you,” I said. “I’m going to get you something else. Something really nice.”
    â€œYou don’t have to.”
    â€œYeah, but I’m gonna. Maybe I’ll buy you a motorcycle.”
    â€œIf you get me a motorcycle, I’ll buy you a car.”
    â€œI’ll buy you a tank.”
    â€œThen I’ll have to get you an F-sixteen.”
    â€œI’d rather have a stealth bomber.”
    â€œHow about a space shuttle?”
    The room was so full of smoke that we couldn’t see the ceiling. It was like being under a low cloud. The tops of the flames disappeared into gray murk.
    It was Andy who first noticed how hot the floor was getting.
    â€œIt feels good, doesn’t it?” I said.
    â€œI don’t know. …” Andy crawled to the door and hung his head out. “Hey, Dougie, I think we better get out of here.”
    â€œWhy? It’s not that smoky.”
    â€œC’mere and look underneath us.”
    I crawled over next to him—the floor was getting really hot—and stuck my head out and looked at the underside of the treehouse and saw a sheet of flame. The underside of the floor was completely on fire.
    â€œCome on!” Andy was out the door, his feet on the top step. I started after him, then remembered I’d left my knife stuck in the wall.
    â€œWait—my knife!” I crawled back inside where the fire was suddenly roaring and groped for my Swiss Army knife. I was blind from the smoke when I finally felt the smooth plastic handle hit my palm. I felt my way back to the door, choking and coughing, my palms blistering, and went out headfirst, forgetting that I was thirty feet up a tree.
    Andy caught me. I don’t know how he did it, or how that top step held under our combined weight, but somehow his arm was around me and I slammed into the