Sun Mote Copse baby if I got you, I don’t need a parachute

Narrator, here: Orca liked to pretend to be tough. At her young age, she felt more wolves would take her seriously. For the most part it seemed to work; there was truth in “fake it til you make it” she had come to find. And maybe Orca could someday grow to be truly tough, but… well, cut back to Orca:

She could have cried to hear the voice of her mother. No, wait—she was crying. Orca didn’t know just how much til she heard her voice, and best yet saw her face. Whimper-whines devolved into elated yipping yelps as she closed the distance between them. For any size disparity there might have been in height, her mother had much on her everywhere else. Orca would be quite easy to throw around, and she stumbled as they collided. 

But she matched her mothers love with an abundance of kisses, and for every one from Meerkat came thirty more in rejoinder. Orca sniffled, snuggled and settled into her mothers arms, and asked, can I stay? her accent not at all diminished from her time away. Perhaps because she hadn’t spoken much otherwise, there had been no other accent to grow accustomed to.