"Okay."
"The stuff won't hurt."
"Okay."
"Hold still."
"Light me a cigarette, Dennison."
"Sure..."
Dennison began fumbling through his clothes, expecting his cigarettes to be shredded; the pack was badly squashed but he straightened a cigarette, lit it, and put it in Chuck's mouth.
Chuck drew a puff or two and then pain doubled him up as smoke trailed across his eyes; the cigarette dropped to the sand; rolling his head from side to side, he groaned, and flailed his arms.
"My eyes ... my eyes!"
"Keep your hands off them!" Willits ordered.