He quivers beneath it, his chest aching. He can't breathe, oh god. Already he can feel his consciousness ceding to the thing that rages desperately against the walls of his skull, thrashing to be let out. Let them out, let them out.

He closes his eyes, terror constricting into a hard knot of outrage in the core of his chest. The urge to do something is unbearable, but he's optionless, helpless like this, an insect caught in flypaper.

He can't do anything like this.

But he knows someone who can.

Tim's eyes snap open. The howling in his head goes still and deathly calm.

All right, then.

All right.

It wants a freak?

Oh, but he'll give it one.

His body goes limp. Tim pulls away, his awareness receding. He's not sure which hateful entity he directs his last conscious thought to:

All yours, buddy.