Peter is eight when he can stop going to hospital. He has been very, very sick the past year and while his daddy is a doctor, it's not the kind of doctor that makes his tummy feel better or fixes his arm like when he fell out of the tree in the backyard. No, Daddy is a different kind of doctor and Peter's now well enough he can live back at home. He's excited because that means he'll be back with all his toys and Rufus, their miniature collie.
He wonders if he'll be well enough to go back to school or if he has to wait. It's almost summer and he's missed most of the school year anyway. He loves getting to sleep in his own bed and can't wait to have the energy to run around in the backyard; Daddy hasn't cut the grass back there in a long time and it looks like a small jungle has sprouted up.
"Now remember, Peter," Daddy reminds him as he leads him up the stairs from the basement, "you can't tell your mother what we did today while she was out."
"What if my eyes start bleeding again?" he whispers hoarsely, feeling his father's hands on his back as he stumbles up the steps.
"They won't, they won't," Daddy assures him. "Watch the top step, son."
Peter, who thought of himself as a clever boy, hadn't realised that you could hook a car battery up to a person. It makes him wonder if he's part machine. Out of the basement and into the kitchen, Daddy is making rootbeer floats, starting with the ice cream first. Peter sits down weakly at the kitchen table, feeling very cold, pulling his pyjama sleeves over his hands as Rufus' warm tongue licks at his bare feet.
The glare of the kitchen light reflects on Daddy's spectacle lenses and Peter can't see his grey eyes behind the glass. "Two scoops, Peter?"