Back at his desk, Peter found that he was actually pretty hungry. He still had the memory of desert on his tongue, but his stomach was quite insistent that it be fed. “Quiet you, food soon.”

Making his way back out to the kitchen, Peter found that dinner was just being served. Ladling out the last spoonful of mashed potatoes with a splat, Peter’s mother was the image of suppressed rage. Every movement was rapid, sharp, jerky. Looking around the corner into the lounge Peter noticed that someone was missing.

“Mum, where’s Dad?” Peter’s voice was small, dreading the answer.

Dropping the potato pot into the sink with a clang, his mother barked out a harsh laugh. “Work called. Seems they can’t finish some proposal without him.” She leaned on the edges of the sink, staring out the window.

“Oh.” The bottom dropped out of his stomach. “Is he going to be back soon? Dinner is going to go cold.”

Sniffing hard and wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, Peter’s mum turned to face him. She gave a wan smile and picked up one of the plates and quickly put it in the oven. “You’re such a good boy Pete. Let’s make sure your dad has a hot meal waiting for him when he gets home, yeah?”

Peter was thoroughly confused, but gave his mum a big hug anyway. He felt incredibly guilty for having ice cream while something momentous had happened here in the real world. He couldn’t think of anything he might have done, or forgotten to do, that could have sparked this fight. “Mum, did you talk to Dad about me not wanting to go back to school?”

One arm still wrapped around him, his mother ruffled his hair. “No honey. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just, let’s not. Please? I’m ok going tomorrow. I’ll make do the best I can.”

Rubbing her eyes again, his mum loosened the hug to look him in the eye. “If you’re sure, then ok. Now, let’s eat before our dinner gets cold.”

The rest of dinner passed uneventfully. Peter and his mother made small talk about the weather, pizza, the books they’d been reading recently and the state of Peter’s english assignment. His mum was particularly interested in the last. She pointed out the similarities to a classic 2D movie she had watched as a teen, where the director had modernised the setting of the same play but kept the original dialogue from The Bard.

After dinner and the wash-up, Peter bid his mother goodnight with the excuse that he wanted to get ready for school tomorrow. In fact he had no such intention. Peter quickly tidied up his room, laid out the next day’s clothes on his desk and ducked out to put his tablet in his backpack. These minimal preparations done he launched himself onto his bed and brought up the internet search page.

“Search terms: age, steam, sorcery, time dilation. Go.” Page one, item one, a link to The Age’s homepage, subsection Avatar of Time. No surprises there. Then the forums, already bookmarked but opened in a new tab to check later. Then a guild calling themselves Torchwood, skip that, not interested in guilds. A link to the Wiki was next, but though there was a reference to time magic, it wasn’t quite what he was looking for. In fact, nothing really about weird time dilation effects on the first page. Peter frowned and hit the button marked next. Page two offered a similar lack of relevant results. He did what every desperate person did when in dire straights: page three.

This is where search terms go to die. Peter discovered that there was such a thing as a rule 43. He very quickly closed THAT link in case his mother was checking his net usage. He also learned a new term: vore. Another link that was closed very quickly, though more from disgust than anything. Deciding that he really didn’t want to know any more, he gave up and closed the web page.

Peter sat in bed propped up by his pillows and tried to sort through his feelings. He wondered what could have dragged his dad into work at this hour. Was it really a work thing, or was he avoiding being home? Why would anyone avoid being home?

A notification pinged in the corner of his vision, a friend request from a Pham Nguyen, sent from The Age Of Steam and Sorcery. As Peter accepted it, a thought occurred to him: what was he doing but avoiding home? Escaping into The Age to avoid the bullies and the tensions at home.

Another ping and a small +1 in a circle overlaid the Age’s icon. When Peter flicked it a short message scrolled into view. Hey, are you going to be on tomorrow? -P.

Probably. Depends. Got stuff first. Send.

You better, I have a hot tip on the world quest. Bring the crazy chick too. -P

Peter pondered that for a bit. I didn’t get to add her. I’ll hit her up when I see her next.

KK, l8trs. -P

It took a few moments to decipher the last message, especially as tired as he was. Torn as he was between acknowledging that the Age represented an escape from his situation, and a new hook dragging him in, Peter closed all the active applications and turned off the light.

Sleep, however, eluded him. Peter tossed and turned fitfully. Every noise in the house startled him from whatever doze he had managed to achieve. His mother in the bathroom, the upstairs neighbours dropping something heavy, a door slamming up the hall. Every single sound, expected or not, caused him to stir and wake. At a loss, Peter quietly slipped from his bed and padded down the darkened hall. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, turned on the tap and let it run as quietly as possible, hooking a finger over the rim to let him know when it was almost full without needing to turn on the light.

Taking a sip as he settled into a seat in the lounge room, Peter let his mind wander. The windowless room expanded to become the fields around Averton, the wind gently blowing through the grass as clouds scudded across the blue sky. Though he longed to actually log in, Peter was too lethargic to commit to the act. Instead, he let the memory and imagination take him as he squirmed deeper into the cushions and crossed his legs up on the seat.

In his mind’s eye DB bounded out from behind him, mouth bulging comically with raspberries. Imaginary DB began to chase around, stuffing more berries in his mouth, occasionally dropping them and picking them up again.

Suddenly, Dani was there too. She smiled and pulled a plate of bacon and eggs from her inventory as she sat beside him. Peter grinned at the thought, the taste and smell of the food coming back to him.

The doofus with the sword ran past, yelling angrily at a bird that had pooped on his precious cape. He chased it to a tree, and began hacking at the trunk with his massive blade. The bird sang mockingly from the branches as the wood chips flew. This only enraged the idiot more, causing him to swing harder until the trunk split with a terrific crack and fell on his head. Peter chuckled silently at the thought of the trunk hammering the git into the turf like an oversized and very angry nail.

Peter sat in the gloom watching the daydream with a warm glow in his chest. He was just starting to feel like he could nod off when a cold wind blew across the fields. Something was off about the scene. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

Looking along the path the wind had come from, leaves were swirling, tumbling, spinning in a rush away from the forest. Dark clouds were beginning to form above the treetops and a susurrus wended its way through the trunks. The sound intensified into urgent whispering and Peter realised it was an actual sound he was hearing.

The fantasy collapsed, leaving Peter sitting in the dark with icy fingers clutching at his insides. Outside in the hall two people were having a conversation almost too loud to qualify as whispering now. Keys jingled, then scratched around the lock before being inserted. Peter dropped his cup on the floor, spilling the rest of the water on the carpet as he scrambled out of the seat and up the hallway. He nearly slammed into the wall before turning left and collapsing just inside his door with his heart hammering. As the front door opened, glaring light silhouetting a figure in the doorway, Peter surged to his feet and swung his bedroom door shut as fast as he could, catching it a fraction before closing and finishing softly.

Tiptoeing to his bed and sliding under the covers Peter listened intently. No sooner had he closed his door, he heard his mother’s door open with a whoosh. “What the hell kind of time do you think this is?” The stage whispered accusation stabbed out. “Peter’s freaking out about where you were. I’ve only just managed to get him to sleep.”

“Dearest, I had to work. I need the overtime to keep this house.”

“Don’t you dearest me, you bastard. You smell of smoke, booze and cheap perfume. Where were you working? A strip club?”

Peter’s dad groaned. “No, but it was a restaurant. I had to entertain the client to close the deal.” He wasn’t even whispering anymore. “His wife wore the worst perfume I’ve ever smelled. Made her smell like a whorehouse. The old coot would be pissed off if he heard you call it cheap though. He says he picked it up in Milan.”

A loud crack echoed through the apartment. “Watch your language. Do you want Peter to start talking like that?”

In the long silence that followed, Peter’s breathing rasped in his ears. Had that really just happened? He didn’t want to hear any more and pulled the pillow over his head. The rest of the argument was thankfully muted and eventually he was able to slow his pulse and breathing. By the time he tucked the pillow back under his head all was quiet in the world again.