His parents had hoped that their son would be a creative polymath, hence the name they’d chosen for him, but who they’d gotten had been Ustinov. He liked words for their precise meanings, but he was a clerk with no ambitions to be otherwise. He craved affection but ate instead of seeking it out, and his main social outlet was his model railway club.
His parents despaired of him.
Perhaps they shouldn’t have, because as Bodram dangled power and glory in front of his nose, Ustinov delicately filled in the details on the model railway station he was making for the hospital’s children’s ward. In it, Bodram was a porter.