Misguided Concern

The living room, usually a sanctuary of tasteful beige and hushed reverence for Timmy’s every scholastic triumph, had devolved into something resembling a high-stakes poker game where the only currency was dread. Mr. Peterson, his usually impeccably coiffed hair now looking like he’d wrestled a badger and lost, paced a worn path in the Persian rug, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white mountains. Mrs. Peterson, perched on the edge of the sofa like a frightened bird, clutched a tissue as if it were a life raft, her eyes darting between the front door and her husband’s increasingly frantic perambulations.

“He should be here by now,” Mr. Peterson muttered, his voice a low rumble of suppressed panic. “It’s nearly seven. He *promised* he’d be back before dinner. Not that we’ve *had* dinner, mind you. Who can eat when their only son is… is… a phantom menace?”

Mrs. Peterson sniffled, dabbing at an eye that was already suspiciously damp. “Perhaps he’s just… delayed, dear. You know how Timmy gets caught up in his… projects. Remember that time he spent three days building that intricate birdhouse that looked more like a miniature Taj Mahal? He forgot to eat then, too.”