Felton Noble went into the bathroom and turned on the light. Facing the bathroom mirror he opened his mouth and removed several large, damp wads of cotton and dropped them in the cracked porcelain sink. He opened the medicine cabinet, losing sight of his reflection for a moment, and closed it after he had removed a brand new jar of cold cream, freshly shoplifted from a drugstore down the street. He opened it and smeared it over his face, then turned on the tap with his right hand while his left caught a brand new towel, also shoplifted earlier in the day. Felton Noble wiped away the cold cream and thick, peach pancake makeup that covered his face.

When he closed the medicine cabinet, the face in the mirror was older, haggard, haunted. No longer in his late 20s, perhaps in his mid-30s. His eyes still dangerously blue, but set deeply within a face that was almost cadaverous without the cotton gauze stuffed into his cheeks.