Prologue
The problem with playing hide-and-seek with your brother is that he somehow always forgets to find you. Or he at least tells you he forgot, when it was really his plan all along to leave you balled up underneath the kitchen sink until all four of your limbs were asleep. But it doesn’t matter, you decide, because he gave up looking for you, which, in a seven year old’s mind, automatically makes you the winner. So when you crawl out of the cabinet hours later and run downstairs to find your brother playing Super Mario Bros. on his new X-Box, you’re not even the least bit disappointed that he couldn’t care less about your victory. His eyes are focused on only the TV screen in front of him, and he’s shouting something about how he’s finally beaten World 4. But you’re shouting louder, trying to get his attention and hoping he cries over the fact that he lost. (Or at least pretends to cry; that always makes you laugh). And by the time you finally realize that the only reason he wanted to play hide-and-seek in the first place was so that he could get rid of you, he’s battling Bowser and you’re sitting on the couch beside him, too wrapped up in his game to care. It’s only that night when you’re lying in bed, half asleep, that you realize you didn’t actually win the game of hide-and-seek at all. Was there ever even a game of hide-and-seek in the first place if you were the only one playing? No, you think, but that’s no reason for me not to keep playing tomorrow and the next day and the next day, until I finally find a way to win.
