The beaver charged on all fours. She and the thing inside her were in agreement—that the Doors were abysmally bad, Jim Morrison's voice sounded like a repurposed-telephone tone, and that the woman in front of her had to die.

                                                                 ***

            Molly was jolted off of George’s lap and lost her balance. She fell flat and made eye contact with the beaver coming toward her. It hated her so much. She could read the loathing in its eyes and its throaty snarls. 

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