I don’t.
The water’s turned gold, and as if on cue, Floyd and Fiona make an entrance—stadium worthy. Two flags of brown fur, arrowing out from the left cove. Except today they’ve got company.
Kits.
Tiny beavers, two of them, trailing after. Every tail-flick is chaos. One dives and comes up ten yards away. The others scramble over each other for a better spot near Floyd’s backside, maybe thinking he’ll produce a meal if they bug him enough.
I point them out.
Eli nearly falls off the dock. “Look at them! Did you see that? They’re—oh my God, did you see that?”
Zoe laughs. “I’m seeing it, bud. They are the cutest things I’ve ever seen.”
She’s not wrong. It’s like someone built a beaver out of two apricots and a marshmallow. They tumble and crash into the lily pads. Floyd keeps swimming like nothing’s happening, king of the lake. Fiona brings up the rear, ears flat, probably twenty percent more patient than any mother in Dickens.
Zoe’s hand lands on the dock, fingers brushing mine.
We watch the beavers and their babies.
Nobody’s talking, not really. Until Eli wants to know if beaver families always stick together. I tell him that sometimes they fight, but they work it out.
Not a perfect family that gets printed on a Christmas card, but the kind that actually holds.
Like us.
