“I don’t like it when nobody scores.” Carter flips a bloody mignon from plate to grill. “What was the series combined score, like twelve and seven?”
“Thirteen and seven,” Josef says. “All of games. Was great pitching!”
“But what’s a game without homers?” asks Carter, and a lion knocks the plate down to scarf the remaining steaks. Then it looks up, politely and clearly expecting more.
“You. Uh. Want to call the zoo or something, Josef?” Carter breathes. “Or 911, anybody, really.”
“Rupus Miltai!” gasps Josef, which Carter thinks is a weird-sounding curse even for Lithuanian (it means, literally, “coarse flour”).