I have always wondered what my potential market value is. Not in the philosophical, spiritual and economic sense, which, judging by my bank account, remains a delicate subject.

I mean an actual price tag. What am I worth if I suddenly become a fugitive? Suppose the government announces a reward for information leading to my capture. How much would they offer?

P5,000? That would be insulting. You cannot even buy a decent cellphone with that amount.

P50,000 sounds better. At least some distant relatives would begin taking an interest in my whereabouts.

P500,000 would be ideal. That is the sweet spot where friends begin acting suspiciously.

At P5 million, people suddenly become very attentive. They ask where you are staying, whether you have plans for the weekend, and whether you still intend to visit your usual coffee shop.

One starts receiving messages from cousins who have not communicated since the Ramos administration. “Just checking on you.”

Of course you are.

If you’re still here, let me tell you that the history of Philippine fugitives suggests that rewards have an unsettling tendency to transform ordinary citizens into amateur detectives or “makapilis.” Or Judases.

A neighbor suddenly develops the observational powers of Sherlock Holmes. A tricycle driver remembers a face. A barber recalls a conversation. A former classmate becomes an intelligence asset.

Money sharpens memory.

This brings us to the latest discussion about Interior Secretary Jonvic Remulla mulling a reward for information that could lead to the arrest of Senator Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa.

The idea raises fascinating questions. Does the amount affect one’s prestige?

If a notorious criminal commands P20 million while the reward for you is only P50,000, should you feel offended? Would it be improper to negotiate?

Can a fugitive hire a public relations consultant? “Your honor, before we proceed, I believe the government is undervaluing my significance.”

After all, movie stars know their talent fees. Athletes know their contracts. Influencers know what they make per sponsored post. Only fugitives are uncertain of their true market worth.

Perhaps there should be rankings, or a quarterly report, or analysts on television discussing bounty trends. “Former officials are up this quarter. Drug suspects are stable. Rebel leaders remain strong despite market volatility.”

The danger, of course, is that Filipinos possess an entrepreneurial spirit. The moment rewards become attractive enough, families may begin holding strategic meetings.

Someone always knows where Uncle Boy is. The only question is whether Uncle Boy is worth more than family harmony. This is why every wanted person should fear these very people — not the police, not the tracker teams, not the surveillance units.

Fear the relative who suddenly asks if you’ve been eating well, the friend who insists on taking selfies, and the neighbor who starts waving too enthusiastically.

Most of all, fear the person who says, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

Those are often the last words heard before someone discovers that confidentiality, like real estate, has a market value. And somewhere out there, somebody is calculating the exact amount.

Should Bato ever find himself in such circumstances, he may discover an uncomfortable truth: the reward is not the frightening part. It is finding out who decides to collect it.