A sudden blinking icon in the corner of Peter’s vision informed him that the real world needed attention. He breathed a sigh of relief, partly because he couldn't find a way to hide any more of the fish and was about to be forced to actually consume some of it, and partly because it was his lunch alarm and not the movement one. He made his apologies and excused himself from the table.

“Dave, sir,” he approached the tavern owner, “would you mind if I left DB here for a minute or two? I have to return to the other world for a short while.”

Dave held out his hand and Peter placed his companion in it. The no-longer-so-tiny rodent had eaten himself into a food coma and lolled between Dave’s fingers. “Looks like the little blighter is all tuckered out. I’ll find him a nice comfy cubby to sleep it off, shall I?”

“What do I owe you for that?” Peter asked, casting a glance towards the table where the Mayor and his wife were still very much enjoying their repast.

Waving a hand dismissively, Dave refused payment. “Not today, Mr Peter. I wouldn’t dream of charging you for watching a sleeping rat on the day you were named our Defender. Be safe and I’ll see you soon.”

Peter thanked the man profusely and slipped out into the stable where he sat on a bale of hay and logged out. Back in the real world the first thing he did was run to the bathroom and brush his teeth. “Pha!” he spat. “That was horrendous!”

“What was horrendous?” His mother’s voice spun him around like magic.

Caught like a deer in headlights, Peter thought fast. “I got a star anise seed stuck in my teeth. They’re nice in the curry, but not so nice when you try to work it out with your tongue.”

His mother looked less than convinced but also rather haggard, as though she hadn't slept in days. “Well, next time floss first.” She ran her hand over her face and through her hair. “Since you just brushed, I’m guessing you don’t want any lunch?”

A noise like a distressed whale echoed off the bathroom tiles. Oh great, now you’re hungry.

At first it looked like his mother was about to explode with anger, but then she just laughed, the most real, authentic laugh Peter had heard from her in a long time. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes, please’ then shall I?”

Ducking his head in shame, Peter nodded. “ ‘s please.”

Eyes twinkling with the kind of mirth that only a mother who had just embarrassed the hell out of her son can muster, his Mum retreated to the kitchen to whip up something lunch-like. Peter imagined this would be exactly what she would be like if he ever brought a girl home, there would be wall to wall baby photos and videos. He let out a small groan, wiped his face and followed his Mum to the kitchen.

“Give me a hand putting this stuff away while I finish up here, honey.” His mother gestured to the bags of groceries all over the kitchen benches. The only clear space was the gap where his mother had placed the toastie sandwich maker, a tin of baked beans and a block of cheese on a small chopping board.

Frowning, Peter began stocking the cupboard shelves with the contents of the bags. None of this looks particularly ‘healthy’, he thought as he put away a box of cereal with more sugar in it than he had seen in the previous year. What’s brought this on? And should I question it, in case it stops? Gift horses and all that. “Smells delicious,” he ventured, “is that white bread?”

“It sure is. Baked beans and cheese toasties, just like we used to have with Grandad. I’ve got a can of beef and onion gravy here too, just in case. You didn’t get dinner last night so I thought you might be a little hungry.” She waved the can in question, it was the store brand, not even a proper brand name, which meant it was loaded with fats, oils and carbs. It nearly made Peter drool just looking at it.

“So. Hungry.” He agreed. After the ‘meal’ I just had even the old cereal would have been better. But this? And Mexican for dinner? Did I die in this world too? Is this heaven?

A plate with two golden brown toasties slid in front of Peter, the outside that colour that can only be achieved by coating it in butter before putting it in the toastie maker, little rivulets of melty cheese dripping down the sides like lava flows from a volcano and twice as hot. “Now, I know you’ve still got a lot of study to do this weekend,” his mother said sternly, “so we won’t be staying out late tonight. Don’t worry, we’re still having dinner at Silverado’s and you can order whatever you want.”

“Thanks Mum!” Peter bit into the first toastie and immediately burned his tongue on the cheese and spat it back out. It was sort of a ritual for him. Before he could rise to grab a drink of water, a small bottle of Pepsi Max was placed in front of him, beads of moisture dappling its outer surface. “Thanks Mum!” he repeated.

‘“You’re welcome. Eat up and get back to the studies. You need to do well next week.” His mother served up her own toasties and a bottle of iced tea.

“Is Dad coming to dinner?” Peter asked suddenly.

His mother paused for a moment, toastie halfway to her mouth, until a dollop of scalding cheese slipped out and landed on her other hand eliciting a very un-mother-like curse. “I’m sorry honey. He can’t make it tonight. We had breakfast this morning and discussed things, like how much he’s been working recently. He’s probably going to be gone until his current project is wrapped up.” She placed her iced tea on the burned spot on her hand, and Peter noticed it had to have hurt, there were tears in her eyes. “It might be as long as a week, so it’ll be just you and me until after exams.”

Peter just nodded. “Okay. I guess that makes sense.” He tried to concentrate on his toastie and not burning himself again. Something was niggling at the back of his brain, however. Something that had happened last night, but the memory wouldn’t form. There was just a fuzzy blackness tinged with sadness. He shook his head. If I can’t remember, it can’t be that important.

Lunch finished and Peter excused himself from the table. “Mum, I’ve been studying all morning, I’m a little brain-burned. Do you mind if I take a break for an hour or two?”

His mother drained the last of her drink before replying. “Tell you what, you do the washup now and you can relax until dinner. How does that sound to you?”

“Done,” Peter stuck out his hand. His mother shook it theatrically to seal the deal then handed him her plate and bottle.

“Don’t forget to put the bottles in the recycling,” she admonished. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. If I’m not up by five, come get me.”

“I promise,” Peter replied, dumping the dishes in the sink. “See you at five.” Well, that was easier than I expected.

Washing up took but a few moments, and by the time Peter retreated to his room his mother’s door was closed and he was sure he could hear snoring coming from the room beyond. He closed his own door gently and climbed into his fortress of solitude. His knee bumped into something hard and metallic that sloshed about in a rather alarming way. What the? Oh, Mum’s flask. Unsure as to what to do with it, he tucked it into his backpack for now rather than leave his room, and clambered back in. Now where was I? The stables, gotta try not to scare the horses.

Fortunately, when Peter logged back in there were no horses to scare. He collected a still-sleeping DB from the bar where Rosie had been tasked with watching him. She had made him a little nest out of a steel helm packed with someone’s old shirt.

“Thanks for taking care of my buddy,” Peter whispered, his voice loud in the deserted bar room. The table he had sat at for the celebratory meal now empty and unclad.

“You’re very welcome, Peter. Thank you for defending us,” Rosie flashed him a friendly smile. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I open the doors to the great unwashed?”

Considering the question for a moment while giving DB a scratch behind the ear, Peter asked the question that had been bothering him all day. “What did I do to earn this anyway? I mean, I just picked out an old quest to catch some fish and suddenly it’s all pomp and ceremony and a badge. A cool badge, but, you know, why?”

“My goodness, Peter, you really don’t know? You landed Old Gnasher. They’ve been calling him Traveller Bane around here for as long as I can remember. Travellers come in, take that quest from the board expecting it to be a simple fishing trip and come back weeks later to return it, broken and lost looking,” Rosie explained. “Not even your friends that were in here this week managed to reel him in, and they went out with some very heavy equipment. No, after you saved our friends warehouse from a dire-rat led horde, carried the weight of our seamstress’s load on your shoulders, took care of Granny without complaint, rescued Ellie’s puppy and took down the were-fox at the same time and brought back the pelts for Weird Bob, you have rightfully earned the title of Defender of Averton.”

Lifting the badge up so that it caught the light, Peter savoured the memories of his successes. “I guess I have, haven’t I?” A tea towel thrown over his head interrupted the train of thought.

“Get away with you,” Rosie chided. “Don’t go getting a big head about it. How many times did you end up in Jacob’s workshop afterwards?”

Peter pulled the tea towel off and laid it on the bar. “Pretty much all of them.”

“Did you ever think that you might be going about it the wrong way then?”

Chastened, Peter nodded. “What other way is there, though?”

Rosie smiled conspiratorially. “That’s for you to figure out.”