He very nearly asks how, but he doesn't because he knows, like a child before a fire, that touching it will only hurt and shame him. So he doesn't; he just feels smaller on the inside, feels the triumph of the last ten minutes flit away.

He finds the silence grow awkward, but doesn't interject anything to fix it, instead stewing on how much he hates his clothing, his bank account, the scuffs on his shoes.