Everyone was there when he woke up.
“Ma?” he said into the dim light of a gray morning.
“Peter,” she replied in a breathy whisper, “Your head.”
He reached up and felt the impossible failure of proportion as his hand alighted upon the massive bulge that was now his left temple.
“Oh Jesus!” his dad exclaimed, hopping back a step and covering the eyes of his little sister.
Peter massaged a bulging vein the size of a garner snake and felt his stomach rise in revulsion and terror.
“Peter, honey, it’s going to be okay.”
His mom put a hand on his shoulder but all he could notice was her eyes flicking frightfully up to his engorged skull. Peter struggled to sit up in bed but was helpless against the weakness of his own neck, pencil thin in comparison to the almighty dome sinking into his pillow.
Peter’s father began to back out of the room while his sister started to wail. His mother shook her head helplessly and turned to leave.
“Happy birthday Peter,” she choked, one shaky hand gripping the door frame.