"David, honey, are you sick?"
His mother's concerned voice perplexed him. He combed his hair with his fingers, which for some reason he didn't do properly today anyway. A rowdy storm of black hair, which in his opinion was already asking to be trimmed.
"E, no," he said, glancing then at his mother, then at his father, who was peering at him from over a mug of morning tea. "I just slept a little badly."
"What, why?" his mother didn't take her eyes off him. "Maybe it's yesterday's heat? Have you overworked yourself? Or did you get sunstroke?" she asked a hair's breadth away from panic.
"Give the boy a break," the father focused on putting a tomato with chives on his lard-smeared slice of bread. Heavy on the stomach, but tasty, especially if the greaves were well rendered but not burnt. "He must have been sitting on the Internet at night watching some movies," said the man.
"In the middle of the week?"
