Gemotions

The coffee cup trembled slightly in Amelia's hands. Sunlight, bright and insistent, sliced through the kitchen window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. Mr. Peterson, his usual jovial self noticeably absent, stood outside, a clipboard clutched in his hand. The tree. He'd come about the oak.

She swallowed hard, the muscles in her neck tightening. She forced herself to take a slow, deliberate sip. The caffeine helped, a little. The air outside seemed charged, electric.

“Amelia, could I have a word?” His voice was hesitant, unusual. She felt the blood rush to her face. She knew where this was going. She braced herself.

“Of course, Mr. Peterson.” Her response was smooth, practiced. She set the cup down with exaggerated care, each movement deliberate.