Shit, what was wrong? Papa doesn't call for fun.
A missed call. Worry laced his every thought. Did something happen? An ominous feeling clawed down his spine and he felt goosebumps on his forearms.
He called back. His dad didn't pick up.
Cosmic humour? For goodness sake, he's my dad. We aren't Romeo & Juliet, role-playing in some movie about star-crossed lovers perpetually brushing against, yet somehow failing to see, each other.
He waited, impatiently.
"Ah 孩子, how's your injury. Remember to apply some medicine on the wound, sleep early and drink lots of water."
In ways that matter, he matters.
Much thanks, Papa, for the concern.