Left the Brandy...

Mr. Beaver lit a fresh cigar and walked with Chris Hare through the hubbub of the forest floor, amid packs of rodents hurrying to and fro, beams hauled overhead, and trees moaning at the edge of collapse. As Hare talked, Mr. Beaver silently mourned the brandy he had to leave behind on his desk, a morning ritual that, if unfinished, boded unwell for the rest of the day.

“Beaver Team 14 was at the embankment grove, you see, sir, and they weren’t on the agenda for today—it was tomorrow’s job, sir, and they cut a tree prematurely. One Ilyich S. Rat is trapped under it, right now. You can imagine the paperwork—”

Mr. Beaver held up a paw and eyed Chris critically. “You mean this is all about a rat?”

Chris nodded hesitantly, mouth still open.

Beaver sighed, and they continued walking. “Just leave it up to a damn rat to get himself hurt. Not dead, is he?”

“No sir, but all due respect, the beavers were—”

“Paperwork semantics, son,” Beaver said. “This it, then?”

Chris nodded, and they entered the site.

View this story's 1 comments.