The wind was picking up. It wasn’t a constant blowing, but sudden gusts that shoved one aside or threw the dry soil about. Gaspard shielded his eyes. Already his ears and the bottom of his pockets carried a fine layer of dirt.
Gaspard lay on the ground, letting the pain and shame pulse through him. Outside the tent, shouting, uncertainty. People ran this way and that. The noise beat in time with his body.