"My dad's rich," Peter replied. Peter made a nice, comfortable living on his own, especially for his age, but Roland King had always been well to do.
To her question, he scoffed. Dream trauma. There was an accurate description if he'd ever heard one. The entire town had it, like a communicable mental illness. For the most part, Peter was sure he needed to get his own head examined, but there was that small, nagging voice that told him that all of this was real.
"About as traumatic as you being in some magic person KKK," he remarked as he poured her a glass of wine and offered it over. He thought about what he'd said over the net, about drinks, and decided to take a sip from the glass himself. See? It was good. "The part I don't get is why just me? Why not my dad and brother? They're in them, so why not?"