Gary dreamed of teeth.

Huge ones. Towering teeth. Teeth the size of office blocks, looming over him like tombstones with fillings. Each one pulsed gently, stamped with a dentist’s bill and a disapproving smiley face.

Somewhere, a drill whined endlessly, growing closer but never arriving. Gary tried to run, but his legs were made of gum.

He woke clutching his jaw.

The pain was worse. Not subtly worse. Impressively worse. It felt hotter now, angrier, like the infection had spent his nap redecorating and inviting friends round.

His face felt swollen. Alien. He touched his cheek and yelped.

This had officially crossed the line from “problem” to “plot”.

He shuffled into the bathroom and caught his reflection. Bloodshot eyes. Hair doing something experimental. One side of his face looked slightly but unmistakably wrong, like a cheap wax figure left in a sunny window.

Gary swallowed carefully.

He could go back to bed. Hope for a miracle. Become a case study. Or he could accept that things had escalated and do something before his jaw detached itself and filed for independence.

The pub photo floated back into his mind. The dentist girl. The ridiculous plan forming around her.

Gary grabbed his jacket.

What does Gary do?

Try to sleep it off properly → Page 18

Admit defeat and go to the pub → Page 13