"Help!" Liora screamed over the roar of the crowd, waving her spoon like a flag of surrender. "We're running out of bowls! And they won't stop coming!"
Sol didn't hesitate. He loosened his grip and hurriedly waded into the mass of bodies.
"Back!" Sol roared, his voice amplified by the lingering resonance of vitality. It wasn't a shout of panic; it was a bark of absolute command, that cut through the clamor like a thunderclap.
The crowd froze. Heads snapped toward him.
The crowd, startled by the sudden projection of authority from the usually quiet "invalid," flinched and stepped back. A small circle of space opened up around the stall.
"Sol!" Lyra gasped, nearly dropping the ladle. She looked at him as if he were a savior sent from the sky.
"Everyone calm down!" Sol ordered, stepping up onto the wooden crate Lira had vacated. He looked over the sea of hungry, desperate faces. "The soup isn't going anywhere. But if you crush the pots, nobody eats. Do you understand?"
