Duty and obligation are two different things. Duty is that which you believe you must do for the betterment of the society you are participating in; obligation is a personal debt between two or more parties. Many feel that the ideas are synonymous, yet they draw internal distinctions based on the nature of the burden; this distinction leads to a sense of arbitrariness where a clear delineation actually exists.

Gareth believed he had a duty to his family, but he actually had no obligation to his father as an individual. He had long ago stopped making an effort in that direction: he owed the man nothing; all debts incurred by right of being his progenitor had long ago been replayed. But family was bigger than the individuals, and relationships between members always affected the whole no matter how one might wish otherwise. This was the conclusion Gareth had come to during his months living on his own and he’d now set his foot on a path that, after a lot of self-reflection and not a little staring at the beaver curled up under the lemon tree, he believed was his duty.

And family was just a gene thing. Gareth’s family had always included a wide range of people outside his bloodline. “And apparently now includes someone outside my species,” he mused to himself.

Gareth turned to Rowan, smiled and said, “Family is weird, you know.”

“I do. I really do. Remind me to tell you about my Aunt Beth one time. And her parrots.”

“Parrots? Pah! Large rodents beat birds any day of the week.” Gareth paused, and then continued, “Thanks, eh. Really, I mean it. I just, well, I needed someone there more than I thought, and I’m glad it was you.”

Rowan tilted her head back and said to the dingy brown roof of the cab, “Y’all are welcome. T’was nothing, really.” She took a long slow breath and turned to study Gareth’s profile as he stared out the window. “It really was my pleasure.” she said so softly that the sound was lost in the low rumble of the taxi.

“So, a beaver, huh? Guess y’all could think of it as an insurance policy. Pelts gotta be worth sumthin’ in a pinch,” she said with an evil chuckle and rubbed her hands together in her best sinister man style.

Despite the obvious joke Gareth found himself shocked at the suggestion. “But … he … oh.” Gareth allowed the ridiculousness of the suggestion to bring a giggle to his lips and retorted, “Hell, you don’t sell something like that, you make a hat out of it. That’s where the money is. A big one like a coonskin hat with the big-ass tail hanging done the back. Fashion-forward, baby. It’ll be all the rage at the clubs.”

Rowan could see the hysteria lurking in Gareth’s eyes and mimed turning the beaver tail hat around and lifted it up to play peak-a-boo with the imaginary appendage. “And this here’s a piece of tail you can play with in public and not get your ass arrested.”

Gareth snorted. “And … and … you can bury your face in …” The rest of the sentence disappeared as laughter took over. Within seconds he and Rowan had dissolved into a teary mass of snorts, giggles and body-wracking laughter that had the cab driver staring into his rear-view mirror with a glare of consternation.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even particularly dirty. But it was what Gareth needed, and Rowan was more than caught up enough in the emotion of the day that she was swept along in the crashing waves of mirth and hysteria.