Once a decision had been made as to which direction the two would start in, Gotham hopped along happily. They had something of a plan, now, and it made exploring all the easier. The place was a little eerie, draped in dust and silence, but with their presence it seemed to gain just a little bit of life. Now that they were moving and exploring, the boy strayed just a little bit further from his father, keeping a few paces ahead of him as they walked through the walls of shelves. For a second he didn't think he knew what a stuffed animal was, but he soon remembered Cambria's butterfly. A pile of those would be a good indicator that there were books for kids there, and the boy nodded at his father's suggestion, his tail swaying behind him as he skipped through the rows of books.
It was a rather miraculous thing that there could actually be so many books in a single place, or even that there were so many books in the whole world. But there must be many buildings like this, all over the place, and the very thought made Gotham's head feel like it was going to explode. There wasn't only the actual physical production of the books to account for, there was also the generation of the ideas that went inside them, the stories and facts that came together to make something worth writing down. Gotham had no clue about the process, and indeed had a rather vague idea about what books were for. Hesitating for a second, one paw staying up in the air in mid-step, he turned his head back to look at his father and asked, "Where do they come from?" Gotham didn't answer his father's question, because it didn't really seem like a real one. All these books were around them, so how come Kansas couldn't believe that they were there? He mustn't have meant it as a real question, so the boy didn't bother to give it an answer.
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