Right away, Mr. Dickerson’s intensity is at odds with his plea of ignorance, composure jolted by the conibear snap of Wysteria Poppell’s Presence. At the same time he’s trying to track where she’s taking him, he’s struggling to recall any scrap of magical toilet paper that might have clung on to give him away, his eyes fixed cold ahead while his mind races.

An absent tip of his chin is the best assurance he can offer that he hasn’t forgotten her field.

When he finally glances over to see her nose touch, it’s a naked attempt to carve through good cheer and into her intent.