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They had unfamiliar names, but Gotham was a literary type and thus was able to categorize them as belonging to the unfamiliar language the Utina family spoke. He would remember them as he remembered most things; a bookworm’s memory was one that filled with long, trailing Latin names and proper terms for insects and plants and things.
She spoke of books for the children, and Gotham quickly recalled that several lay scattered about in the common area he had avoided since the return from AniWaya. Her explanation was taken at face value; they had only seen a few books, and certainly not the large collection beyond the great room that so many often shared. With one motion, Gotham rose to his feet. He was a tall wolf and long-legged, resembling his mother in many ways. Larger than her, however, he was a giant amongst most. “I could read to them,” he offered, suddenly desperate for the escape. “If you want, that is,” he added quickly, almost nervously. Unsure of himself yet, Gotham had not found a nitch within the pack he had lived in since birth.
but it turned out the way it does with everyone
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