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when the building started to fill up with workers, I'd walk down a few floors, get on an elevator, punch the lobby button, and walk out as if I had just finished an early dentist or doctor's appointment, getting home before Mom, Rolf, or the twins knew I was gone.
    I guess my plan didn't quite work out in the Woolworth Building.

BANGKOK
     
    ONE HOUR AND FORTY-THREE MINUTES.
    And still no sign of my father.
    I had made one trip out of the country with Rolf, Mom, and the twins (London, two summers ago) and knew that you had to check in early for international flights.
    Where was he? What kind of errands was he running? What if he didn't show? (And all the other boring questions that run through your mind when you're waiting.)
    I walked over to the flight information monitor, thinking that maybe our flight was delayed. ON TIME , it read.
    Above the monitor was a regular TV. I glanced at it, and was going to turn away until the anchor said: "The state of New York has reached a plea agreement with Peak Marcello, the boy who climbed the Woolworth Building early last week. He was sentenced to three years of probation and fined a whopping one hundred fifty thousand dollars! This is the steepest penalty ever given for criminal trespass in New York's history..."
    The camera cut to a shot of the mayor getting into the back of a black limo. He turned to the reporter and said: "This should put an end to people climbing skyscrapers in the city of New York. This illegal activity will no longer be tolerated under any circumstances."
    "Peak Marcello and his family were unavailable for comment," said the reporter, "and it is believed the boy has left the state of New York for an undisclosed location."
    Not yet, I thought, turning away, grateful they hadn't run a photo of me.
    "Peak!"
    Finally. My father was pushing a huge cart with a mountain of gear piled on it. I trotted over. "Give me a hand."
    I helped him push the cart up to the counter. "What is all this stuff?"
    "I don't get to New York very often and thought I should stock up on some supplies. Give me your passport."
    He put it down on the counter along with his own battered passport, which looked like it had been through the wash a couple times.
    "You're cutting it a little close, Mr. Wood," the attendant said.
    "I know," my father said. "Family emergency."
    The attendant pointed at the cart. "This exceeds your baggage limit."
    My father took a credit card out of his pocket. "Just put it on this."
    By the time we had everything checked we had only minutes to catch the flight. We were the last ones down the Jetway.
    "I couldn't get us seats together," he said as we stepped onto the airplane. "But at least we're both in business class." He pointed out my seat, then took his own, which was three rows behind me, and that's the last time I talked to him for thirteen hours.
    We had a three-hour layover at the Narita airport near Tokyo, but I didn't get a chance to talk to him there, either, because he spent the entire time on his cell phone speaking in what sounded like Chinese, but it could have been Thai or Nepalese, as far as I knew. He was still jabbering on the phone when we boarded the plane for Bangkok, where I was disappointed again to see that we were in separate rows.
    Another six hours passed.
    On the way to customs in Bangkok, I finally caught him between calls.
    "I'm really sorry about all this, Dad you having to come all the way to the States, the money, being stuck with me—"
    "Whoa," he said, holding up his calloused climbing hand. "First, you don't have to call me Dad. I don't deserve the title. For the time being, let's pretend I'm your big brother. Just call me Josh like all my friends do. Second, don't worry about the money. Rolf and your mom put a big chunk of change in. I'll get my portion back. And finally, I'm not stuck with you. I couldn't be happier to have you with me. I just haven't had much time to show it because I'm trying to put something