So I decided to summon Mom and Dad. I was so aching for my family right then, I even whipped up Brenda, aka Pork Chop-my annoying little sister-out of thin air.

“Um, Daniel, I don’t think we’re all going to fit,” said Pork Chop, nodding at my bike.

“You are not still riding motorcycles,” said Mom. “You know how I feel about them, Daniel. Not safe.”

Dad smiled knowingly at me. It wasn’t an argument worth having with Mom, although-for the record-he and I knew that unless I had an accident on my bike that involved falling into the sun or possibly a direct hit from an Opus 24/24, chances were I would escape permanent injury. And so-presto change-o-I willed some additional matter into existence and transformed my motorcycle into an awesome late-eighties vintage, wood-panel, retrofitted Dodge minivan.

“Air bags?” asked Mom.

“Side-impact air bags and ABS,” I assured her and gave her the keys.

“Well, let’s get going,” said Dad. “Time’s a wasting, and we need to convene a strategy session for dealing with Number 5 and Number 21.”

The man never took a breath without having a six-point plan for it.

“And then, dear, sweet, wonderful, multitalented brother, we can all go out in the yard and polish the giant golden statue we’ve made of you because we love and adore you and, basically, worship your fantastic self… or not,” said my sister, making the L-is-for-Loser sign against her forehead.

I was too tired to retaliate, so I just rolled my eyes.

“So where’s home, anyway?” I asked.

“Why, right here,” said Mom, pulling the minivan over in front of a huge Victorian house with a wraparound porch and a FOR RENT sign in the front yard.