George barely looked up at his mother. "In a minute," he said, his fingers dancing over the joypad. On the screen his night, wearing the red cross of the England football team, threw a dagger at the princess that the dragon lunged to intercept. George used the distraction to slam his +3/+6 against dragons broadsword into the dragon's heart. "Die, worm," he muttered.
"I SAID it's dinner time and we have a guest." His mother closed the laptop screen, forcing him to forego the treasure. His fists clenched.
"Mo-om! I was playing that." George glared up at her. "You could have at least let me save my game."
"You could have done that ten minutes ago when I first called you." His mother folded her arms into a no-negotiation pose. "Now go and wash your hands for dinner."
He appeared several minutes later, sliding into his chair with a frown as his mother spooned pasta and vegetables onto his plate. "What's this crap?" he asked. "I wanted a burger."
"It's pasta arrabbiata," said his mother. "In honour of our guest."
George looked at the stranger, an old man of his mother's age with long hair and pewter jewellery. "Who's this then?"
"This is Peter, from the circle I go to," she said. "He's the leader, or dragon of the group."
"Pleased to meet you, George. Your mum's told me a lot about you." Peter held out his hand.
George narrowed his eyes. "Dragon, eh?" He picked up his knife.