. . .

Something has gone wrong with the atmospheric pressure in the room. Tom’s ears hurt. The room swims. Mr. Loggins looks up at Tom and his eyes — his eyes —

Through the pupils and the irises of them the hat has torn a jagged line of amber glow.

“Bloody hell,” whispers Mr. Loggins. “— bloody hell.”

“What did it make you, sir?” asks Tom, affecting chipperness, even though he feels as if something has gone wrong. Perhaps, he thinks, it is only that I have taken off the hat.

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