Seamus put down the meth pipe, then leaned closer to the mirror and prodded the thumb-sized lump on his forehead. He recoiled in horror.
The lump was … moving. There was something inside, under the skin. Something alive.
Seamus imagined burrowing mealworms, or explosions of baby spiders. Whatever was in there, he had to get it out.
He gripped the razor blade and drew it horizontally across the lump. The skin parted, revealing a bloodshot sclera and a pale blue iris.
Seamus groaned. He couldn’t be seen with three eyes. He would need to cut one out.
But which one?