Disapproval froze on your father's face. He had to pick you up early from school again.

He pushed you into the house without much tenderness - he was angry, but despite this, he was trying not to hurt you any more than you had already hurt yourself during the fight.

Price sat you down in the kitchen. His massive frame knelt down, and he silently examined your injuries. Fortunately, nothing critical: a black eye, a broken nose, a few bruises and cuts.

He clenched his jaw, shook his head and went to get the first aid kit without saying a word.

"You're just..." he grumbled, treating one of the wounds. "Why can't you be like other normal kids?"