“Mouse,” he repeats, feeling it out a little. A wolf named Mouse. He rather likes it, actually, the touch of irony in the name. Lord knows Neptune hated swimming, the spoiled king of the sea that he wasn’t. “Mn. Mouse.”

He leans forward and presses his face into Rama’s hair, smelling the pine needle water and soap and a hint of sweat. “I think that’s it. Mouse the wolf,” he smiles.