The painting was tilted exactly three degrees to the left. To anyone else entering the gallery, it was a minor imperfection. To Hogan, it was a physical ache in his jaw.
Hogan froze. A young man leaned against the brick wall, wearing a jacket stained with dried turpentine and charcoal. His eyes were bright, restless, and locked onto Hogan's reaching hand.
"It's crooked," Hogan said, his voice straining to remain professional. "By exactly three degrees. It ruins the line of the entire wall."
"I can't leave it like this," Hogan murmured. "My eyes won't let me."