Make-Believe is a drug to McFeely, and like all responsible addicts he rations it: one visit on Monday, one Wednesday, one Thursday. Weekends are agonizing when an hour is a month long.

Outside the Neighborhood he speeds up, a bandersnatch, a gasping blur to any observer. He himself is lonely and cold. Acceleration makes the world a dim statue garden.

But inside that strange gremlinoid field, the shoes whine down and the bracers flicker, and sunlight returns. He doesn’t dawdle, never that. He just takes his own time. “Speedy Delivery,” he says, and the smile just won’t leave his face.