and there is something on his mask, something large and white-pink and rippled that extends outward, into the doorway, where Cheyschek cannot see. As Cheyschek nears, he sees that the something on his compatriot’s face is actually somethings: a pair of huge hands grasps the sides of the man’s head, yet the thumbs have been shoved deep into the man’s eye sockets, all the way up to the second knuckle.