There were no signs of his obvious wolfish heritage yet, for the boy was still young. He lacked the ferocity of his sister’s gaze, her feral nature. Yet he was neither docile nor stupid—simply different. Years might pass before he was understood, but the boy was learning yet what it would take. Vocalization, for one, seemed to be an easy way of pleasing his mother. Furthermore, it gave him the ability to make others understand what his body tried so desperately to communicate.
Each time his mother spoke, he saw the joy in her face and knew he had done right. She had been so sad for so long since that day with the monsters, and this sadness leeched into his heart from observation. The rise in his mother’s voice (its volume and not its tone, for he did not notice this change) made his tail wag behind him furiously. Oh, Nana he understood and Nana he loved. Mouth-wide and gaping, he let trembled all over at the idea of Nana seeing him use dog-words and not the horse ones he used around her. “Yes! I talk to Nana, mamma!” He meant this literally—he had spoken to the horse. Of course, an outsider might think him slow, repeating her words as a baby might.
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