Dawn broke with an audible snap. Peter jerked awake and tumbled out of bed. Expecting some sort of attack he scrambled to the doorway and fell through, careening off the wall opposite and stumbling most of the way down the hall before he realised he was in the real world and was unlikely to die any time soon. He gathered his wits and stepped into the kitchen with as much dignity as he could muster.

His mother was standing at the sink, resting her weight on her elbows. His father was sitting at the table with a thundercloud look on his face. One cheek was quickly reddening. Whatever had just happened they both plastered on fake smiles to greet him.

“Good morning champ. Are you ok?” He dad inquired, his concern real even if his smile wasn’t.

Peter grimaced, caught between admitting the truth – that he had been expecting slavering death at the jaws of something large and hungry then an agonising trip to a small box – and a less truthful but more believable story. In the end, he went with the story. “Yeah, I stubbed my toe on the bedroom door and ran into the wall.” He hung his head. It didn’t feel right lying to his parents but it seemed like they weren’t being totally honest with him either.

His mother whirled around and grabbed his chin in an iron grip. She turned his head left and right then tilted it down. “You’ve got quite the egg coming up there. You should get some ice on that right away.” Just as quickly a bag of frozen peas was whipped out of the freezer, wrapped in a tea towel and smooshed against his head in the approximate area where the egg was rising on his forehead.

Peter’s dad was half out of his seat by now. “Honey, gentle. He’s already rattled the cage, he doesn’t need you scrambling his brains completely.’ He was skewered by a look, and sank back into his chair. “Well, not so rough, anyway.”

“Mum! I’m ok. Honest.” Peter held the improvised compress against his head anyway. He knew that look all too well.

“You just sit down, I’ll make you something to eat.” She took Peter’s dad’s plate and dropped it in the sink with a clank. “The pan’s still hot if you want pancakes.”

Peter’s face lit up at the mention of pancakes. Still holding the peas against his head despite the entire area being completely numb Peter plopped himself down at the table. “That sounds awesome. Yes please!”

Peter’s dad stood up, passed him the maple syrup then added his tea cup to the sink. He carefully avoided looking at his wife standing at the stove. “Looks like I’m done for brekkie. Best be heading off to work. I’ll see you tonight, champ.”

“Bye, Dad!” Peter waved with his free hand as his father headed out the door. “Mum, are you and Dad ok?” he asked once the echoes in the hall had faded away.

Taken aback for a moment, Peter’s mum accidentally poured more batter into the pan than intended. Quickly placing the mixing bowl on the countertop she swirled the pan to spread the mix as evenly as possible. Only when she appeared satisfied did she turn around. “Why ever would you ask that, honey?” she asked, her face the picture of innocence.

“Well, I heard you and Dad arguing the other night. In your room? If it because I’m in trouble at school?” Peter’s red face was spreading down his neck too.

“Oh, honey, no. Mummies and Daddies disagree sometimes. I’m sorry. We’ll try to be quieter next time.” Peter’s mum kept her concentration on the frypan in front of her. He wasn’t sure what expression her face held, but her voice sounded strained.

A pancake bigger than Peter’s head landed on his plate. It was a little darker on one side than usual, but it was definitely the biggest ever served in this house and all thoughts of his parents issues vanished. He dropped the cold bag on the table and began to ply the massive disk with maple syrup. He liked them soaked through and with whipped cream on top. As if reading his mind, his mother leaned over his shoulder and squirted the contents of a can of whipped cream on top.

“Eat up, there’s enough in the bowl for a couple more. They’re for you, I ate with your father.” Peter barely heard, beyond registering that there were more to come. “Now, when you’re done, I need you to be my big boy and wash the dishes. I’m taking the laundry down to the laundry room and I’ll be a while.”

“Mm, ok Mum.” Peter mumbled around a mouthful of food. “Will do.” It wasn’t until his plate had been licked clean that it registered what he had been asked to do. Shrugging, Peter finished making the pancakes, making sure to scrape every last drop of batter out of the bowl. A few minutes later he was sitting at the table with a maple syrup bottle in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other and a smile almost big enough to give him a flip-top head. It might not be a legendary-orc-chef produced bacon and eggs, but it was all his.

Half an hour and the entire can of whipped cream later Peter slumped happily in his seat. His stomach had that “you’re going to regret this later” fullness and zero regrets about it. He slowly began to pack up, plates in the sink, pan in the sink, can in the bin when a thought crossed his mind. This was the first time his mother had let him use the stove unsupervised. Pride swelled in his chest as he remembered just how delicious the pancakes had been. Not a single burned one, though a couple had been less cooked than they should have been. Still, it was quite the milestone. He wondered when his mum would be back so he could share the tale. It had been quite a while since she left.

As he ran the water in the sink and added the soap, the thought tickling the back of his brain. He knew if he didn’t get the cleaning done before she got back there’d be hell to pay, but just how long was that going to be? Not that he could stress too hard about it, not with a belly full of happiness and the image of the Hell Toupee in his mind.

That had been a great day. Long ago, when Peter was still little and Grandad was still around, the whole family had gone to The Museumscape. All museums in the country had been amalgamated into a single entity, their contents viewable from identical installations much like a warehouse and garden had a lovechild. The children were fitted with AR helmets, adults accessed the data through their implants, and everyone wandered around the virtual exhibits.

Granddad had told terrible jokes and puns constantly. His parents had laughed and hugged each other and smooched when they though no one was watching. There was an interesting exhibit of significant possessions of American Presidents, and Grandad had stood inside the space where the mannequin bore Donald’s hairpiece. Grandad had loudly declared himself the King of the Hell Toupee, which totally cracked up everyone in earshot – except his Dad who had heard all his father’s joke a million times and just muttered “don’t encourage him, please.” It had been a great day.

Lost in the memories, Peter plunged his hand into the dishwater harder than intended and knocked the pan into a plate which promptly shattered. Peter immediately ripped his hand back out of the water in fear, but that very instinctual response caused a jagged edge of ceramic tear into his arm leaving a shallow but agonising cut from his wrist halfway down his forearm. He stared at the gash, stunned, until it began to bleed.

“Crap, craaaaap, crap, crap. CRAP!” Peter dashed back down the hall to the linen closet and grabbed the first rag he could get his hand on. He bound his wound as best he could, marvelling at how much less it hurt than some of the injuries he had experienced this week. True, it was the first REAL injury experienced this week, but having your head bitten off by a massive fox tends to make anything pale in comparison.

With the wound effectively bound for the moment, he checked the bathroom for painkillers and sports tape. As he hunted through the cupboards he triggered his implant’s call function. Moments later his mother answered.

“How was breakfast, honey? Are you full?” His mother’s voice was quiet, like she was whispering. Peter frowned at that, but let it pass.

“Mum, I kinda cut myself a bit. Can you come up and help, please?”

“I’m a little busy, dear. There’s bandaids in the bathroom cabinet above the sink. You should be ok until I get home? Yes?”

Peter mentally upgraded the call to video so she could see what had happened, though his mother’s end just stayed as an icon. The rag tied around his arm was slowly reddening and the stinging was getting very intense. “Ok, it might be a bit more than a bandaid can fix, Mum.”

“Peter! What have you done to yourself? Never mind. I’ll be there soon. You go sit at the table and stay still.” His mother ended the call to the sound of pounding feet. He hoped she would get home soon.

In the meantime, he found the bandaids as well as the sports tape, some gause and most importantly, the painkillers. With a mouthful of water those went down fast. He was quite glad that he didn’t have to brew a willowbark tea, and thought about how useful some bandages would be ingame. Not particularly, he realised, since most of his fights have been over in seconds – one way or another. Maybe he should find a way to train up his endurance, or some other way of gaining hit points. He pondered these concepts as he made his way back to the kitchen and sat. The painkillers were working and he was beginning to feel lightheaded, the thoughts moving sluggishly through his mind. Shock was beginning to set in, leaving him wondering where his respawn point was set to in case he died, when his mother burst in the front door.

“Dammit Peter! Can’t you go a day without hurting yourself?” She demanded breathlessly. “Show me the arm.”

Peter held out his arm for her to see. The rag, an old towel that was too threadbare to be effective anymore, came loose and unwound itself. The edges of the cut came apart and blood began to well up. With the drugs suppressing the pain, it was an exceptionally weird sensation. Peter tried to poke at the exposed part of the hole but his mother batted his finger away.

“Well, it’s not deep.” She panted between deep breaths. “It won’t need stitches, at least I think so. We can fix this. We can fix this. Um…” she cast around, assessing the supplies Peter had laid out on the table. Quickly grabbing a set of kitchen shears from a drawer, she knelt in front of him and cut the rag while holding the edges to keep the wound closed.

“Hold here,” she ordered, indicating where she was holding the material. Peter forced himself to focus through the cotton wool in his head and obeyed. A clean bowl was sourced from the cupboard and filled with water, into which a piece of gauze was dipped used to clean off the surface of his skin without opening the binding too much. Another piece was sacrificed to dry his arm. Lastly, a single long strip was laid along the cut and bound in place with the sports tape as the rag was peeled back to allow access.

Peter marvelled at his new accessory from amongst the pain-free clouds. “Hey, my real arm is tougher than my game arm!”

Peter’s mother looked up from where she was cleaning up the mess on the table. “Game arm? Peter what are you talking about?”

“Well, I was playing a game on the internets. And I got my leg eaten. And drowned. And burned. And head bitten off. And this girl ate my bacon and eggs. And I met Life, and I think I sat in Death’s house? It’s fun, you should try it.” Peter rambled. “Especially the bacon and eggs. They’re made by an orc!”

His mother dropped the kitchen shears, nearly impaling her foot and making another mess to clean up. She picked them up with an angry swipe, “You’re playing a GAME? Where you got your HEAD bitten off? What were you thinking? How is this fun? No, forget I asked. I don’t want you playing that game anymore. You’re going to your bed for the rest of the day. Sleep, read, watch a movie, but no games. We’re going to have a talk about this with your father when he gets home. Off you go. Now.”

Out the corner of his eye, Peter watched his mum put on some rubber gloves and carefully put her hands in the sink to pull the plug. The look of disgust on her face as the pinkish water drained away cut through the fog like a knife. Or, like a plate shard through an arm. He wanted to say something, anything, but didn’t know what. Dejected he slouched off towards his bedroom.