Around his shoulders was something that resembled a quilt of many squares. The squares were uneven, different shades and textures. They faded as they reached his shoulders, as though those pieces were the oldest. Those looked like they would feel like paper if you could bear to touch them.

The Skinstealer’s livery lips parted, revealing a crooked row of teeth that made me think of old tilted headstones in untended graveyards. He pointed at the Sharpied name on the sleeping bag where Kevin lay slumbering.

“Kev-iiiinnnnnnnnn,” he whispered, drawing out the last syllable. It was the most horrible thing I’d ever heard. I was afraid he’d never stop and the sound would drive me crazy.

“Yeah,” I said when it finally did. “It’s fine.”