With both arms I swiped out blindly, groping for something to cling to. What I ended up grabbing was a round, mossy-topped rock-or so I thought, until the rock started speaking.

“Noah,” it whispered. “Please let go of my face.”

I opened my eyes. “Dad?”

“Sorry if I scared you.”

I bolted upright and reached for the lamp. There was my father kneeling by the bed, still wearing the orange jailhouse jumpsuit. He was definitely not part of my dream.

“It's good to see you, buddy.”

“Good to see you, too,” I said. “But what are you doing here?”

“I escaped,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Escaped? From jail?”

“I'm afraid they left me no choice.”

I didn't bother to ask who he was talking about because it didn't matter. This time he'd gone too far.

“Does Mom know you're out?”

“Not yet. I wanted to wake you and Abbey first.”

Sure, I thought, because he wanted protection. Mom wouldn't throw any heavy objects at him if we kids were in the room.

“It looks bad, I know,” he admitted, “but I can explain.”

I doubted that seriously.

“Here's an idea,” I said. “How about you try out your story on me, before we go see Mom?”

Dad grinned in relief. “I knew I could count on you, Noah.”

Breakfast was surprisingly civilized, all things considered.

Dad had slept on the floor of my room, then surprised Mom first thing in the morning. She cried some at first, and they hugged for a long time. Abbey and I slipped out of the kitchen and parked ourselves in front of the television, which still wasn't working.

The TV-dish repair guy showed up while my mother was making eggs and pancakes, and he was still banging around on the roof when we all sat down to eat. I didn't volunteer any information about the broken satellite dish, and Mom didn't ask. Her attention was fixed on my father.

At first there was lots of easy talk and even a few laughs. He asked Abbey about her piano lessons. He asked me for a fishing report. He asked Mom if the washing machine was still leaking, and if Grandpa Kenneth had gone ahead with his double-hernia operation.

Finally, Dad set down his fork and said, “Look, I want to apologize for all the grief I've caused. I'm not sorry I sunk the Coral Queen, but I admit that my judgment was clouded by frustration and impulsiveness and… well, anger.”

So what else is new, I thought.

“Have you ever heard of a gag order?” he said.

Abbey glanced at me irritably. I looked at my mother, who was obviously waiting for Dad to explain why escaping from jail was such a grand idea. At her request he'd taken off the orange jumpsuit and put on a pair of jeans with a T-shirt. To a visitor he would have appeared completely normal.

“The sheriff got a lot of flak from Dusty Muleman and his buddies after I went on Channel 10,” Dad was saying, “so he decided I couldn't do any more interviews. Basically he gagged me! Not literally, but you know what I mean. Meanwhile Channel 7 is calling, the Miami Herald, even NPR! That's National Public Radio!”

“We know what NPR is,” Abbey said thinly.

“Go on, Paine,” said my mother, her voice tight.

“Honestly, I didn't know what to do. None of the deputies at the jail were talking to me anymore,” Dad said. “So I just sat alone in my cell, reflecting on the fact that this country was founded on the bedrock of free speech. It was colonized by people who'd been forbidden to express themselves in their homeland, and were determined to build a new society that was open and free.”

“Unless you happened to be a slave,” I pointed out.

“A valid point, Noah. The settlers who came to America weren't saints, that's true,” said my father, “but the principles they put into law were solid and just. And here I was, rotting in jail, deprived of my freedom to speak out by some small-minded, small-town bureaucrat with a badge. It was just wrong, so wrong.”

Dad wasn't acting. He truly believed that even a jailbird has a constitutional right to go on television.

“Last night, after they brought me dinner-if you could call it that-there was a bad car accident on the highway in front of the sheriff's station. Some drunk rolled his convertible. All the deputies ran outside to help.”

“So you just waltzed out the back door,” Abbey said.

“They forgot to lock my cell!” Dad looked to me for moral support. “It was one of those moments that called for a split-second decision.”

“You could've decided to relax and eat your dinner,” I suggested.

“But how could I stay there, muzzled like a dog?” my father said. “What good could I possibly do, stuck in that situation? People need to be told what's going on around here. They need the truth!”

He paused, as if waiting for someone to applaud. We didn't.

“So I hid for a couple hours in the woods behind the hardware store,” he went on quietly, “and then I made my way home.”

Abbey picked at her pancakes. I poured myself another glass of orange juice. We'd heard his whole story the night before. Now it was time for Mom to weigh in.

She said, “Paine, there's something you ought to know. Mr. Shine got some interesting news yesterday about the Coral Queen case.”

“Like what-Dusty confessed?” Dad said dryly.

“No, but he agreed to drop all the charges. He promised not to prosecute if you promise to stop spreading stories about him. He also wants you to get some psychological counseling,” my mother said.

“That's good news? He wants me to play like I'm crazy?”

“It shouldn't be hard,” Mom said tersely. “Whatever it takes, I want you home. And so did the sheriff, by the way. He called yesterday to tell me they were bringing two prisoners up from Big Pine for a court hearing and they needed both jail cells. He'd planned to release you this morning, bail or no bail. He's already lined up a judge to sign the order.”

“Meaning…”

“Aw, don't tell me.” Abbey slapped a hand to her forehead.

“That's right,” my mother said. “Paine, you didn't need to escape. They were getting ready to evict you.”

Dad slumped in his chair. I looked over at him and gave a sympathetic shrug. “Bad timing,” I said.

“But are they allowed to do that?” he asked miserably. “Can they kick a person out of jail, even if he refuses to put up bail? I don't think so.”

Mom said, “In this county they can. Trust me.”

For several moments we all stared at our cold eggs and pancakes and thought about the absurdity of the situation. Eventually my father said, “Oh well. It all turned out the same anyhow. No harm done.”

“Wrong,” Mom said crossly. “The judge hadn't signed your release papers yet, so technically you did commit a jailbreak. That's a felony, Paine-worse than sinking Dusty's casino boat! This time they could send you to a real prison.”

Dad folded his arms thoughtfully. “So I am a fugitive after all.”

“Congratulations,” Abbey muttered.

My mother was thoroughly exasperated. “No harm done? Are you kidding me?” she said to my father.

“Donna, all I meant was-”

He was spared by a knock on the door-the TV-dish repairman, waiting to be paid. Mom wrote him a check and returned briskly to the table.

“Paine, here's what we're going to do now,” she said, plucking the phone off its cradle. “We're going to call Mr. Shine and tell him to arrange for you to turn yourself in. Then, if the sheriff is in a generous and forgiving mood, he'll go ahead and release you-legally, quietly, and without further embarrassment.”

The word “embarrassment” hung in the air like a foul smell. Still, Dad didn't seem to comprehend how much trouble he was in with Mom.

He said, “Honey, I'm not sure I can turn myself in to these people. There are principles at stake, basic human rights.”