The bathroom light flicked on with all the enthusiasm of a dying moth. Gary squinted at his reflection, leaning closer to the mirror like it might flinch first.

“Alright,” he said to himself, lips pulled back carefully. “Let’s see the damage.”

This was a mistake.

The tooth—or what was left of it—sat at the back of his mouth like a condemned building no one had bothered to cordon off. One corner was dark. Not shadow-dark. Problem-dark. The gum around it looked angry, swollen, and damp in a way gums absolutely should not be.

Gary prodded it gently with his tongue.

The pain detonated.

He jerked back from the mirror, clutching the sink, eyes watering. Somewhere in his skull, a small alarm went off, the one usually reserved for “this is how infections get written about later.”

He rinsed his mouth, spat, and stared again. The swelling was worse than he’d thought. One cheek bulged slightly, just enough to give him the lopsided look of a man mid-stroke or mid-excuse.

Gary tried opening his mouth wider. That hurt too. Everything hurt now. Even thinking.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. The pub chat again. Laughter. Plans. Life continuing at a deeply inconsiderate pace.

He had options. Panic was one of them. Rational thought was another, though it felt increasingly theoretical. And then there was denial—his old, reliable friend.

Gary wiped his mouth and stood up straight.

What does Gary do?

Panic and google symptoms → Page 7

Rationalise that it’s “not that bad” → Page 8