Infuriated, you jump up and toss the newspaper on the floor. You pace the room. How much of this is real? Are you making this up? Hallucinating? Is this a practical joke? You continue pacing, then catch a glimpse of yourself in the hallway mirror. You stop abruptly and walk closer, inspect more carefully to confirm - yes, your once-bloodshot eyes are now a flaming red, interrupted only by the small black of your pupils. Shocked, you paw at your eyes, prod them to see if the red will come off, if it's just a cruel trick of light. But no - as you lean in more, you notice something else odd. Your once spherical eyeballs are now stretching out horizontally into - no, could it be? - a cylindrical shape. It's all falling into place, and you know in your bones that you're becoming like those cases documented on the website. No wonder your eyes have been bothering you; apparently they're becoming whatever the object becomes! Wait. Hold on. You gasp as you realize what happened next to the object. You gulp deeply, try to avoid thinking of the equivalent for your eyes. Wallace - you must get in touch with Wallace. You squint as you turn frantically to scan the room, looking for the card Wallace gave you with his new phone number. You see a spot of warm orange on the table by the door and dash over to it. You need to call him right away. But, what? Wallace's number is not in numbers. What the crap font is this?!