Lyle didn’t realize that he’d clamped both hands over his mouth until the odor of his dirty fingers crept into his nose. Grimacing, he let go of his face, wiped each side of his mouth on the shoulders of shirt and ran his palms up and down his thighs to scrub them as well as he could. Then he stood in place, waiting for any indication that his shout had been heard: the brush of Arius’s curtain being flung aside, the sharp clicks of footsteps, an inquiring yell.