larger and larger, like when you are walking closer and closer to Nightingale Point. Then, there is a huge noise that makes Elvis put his hands over his ears and push his palms in. But the sound goes right through them. He squeezes tighter and tighter. Tight enough to collapse his soft ears and squeeze his head like a piece of clay on the creative table at the Waterside Centre. But no matter how hard he squeezes he can still hear the horrible loud blaring noise and then his own voice as it escapes his body. He screams, loud. As loud as he can. He is frightened. He does not know what is happening. It feels like the skin is being blown off his face. Tears stream from the corners of his eyes and run off his face horizontally. His bottom lip is pulled down, his teeth bared to the wind, and they become cold. His mouth opens and he tries to scream but it does not come out, or maybe it does. He is not sure. He cannot hear it. But he can feel it in his chest, which goes raw from the effort; he feels his stomach empty of air, the muscles cramp down as they expel every ounce he has, until he has nothing.
