The fear creeps in, then sets sharp and solid at the age. "No," he croaks. "I am seven and a half and I'm not ready for a demonic invasion of prickles on my face. I'm not waiting another year just to end up with sandpaper for skin."

He's definitely staring now, fascinated in his horror, almost wanting to touch the strange, rough surface. It's creepier than it has any right to be now, transformed by the teenage dread of his body's inevitable betrayal.