Bill was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over their laptop, diddling with the word choices to best describe beavers—was it hairy or shaved—when he heard her yell. He ran to the garage. The beaver was almost on Deb. He charged the beaver, wound his leg back, and punted it. It flew like it had been shot out of a cannon and rebounded off the now-closed door. It looked to be dead.

            He shook Deb.

            “It was coming right toward me,” she said. “And I couldn’t move.”

            “Go inside. I’m going to take care of it,” he said.

   &nb...

Please subscribe to keep reading.