Gemotions

The chipped ceramic cat, the one with the perpetually vacant stare, was *still* there. Sarah glared at the dusty knick-knack. She’d been circling this yard sale for twenty minutes, trying to find something, *anything*, worth the effort. Now, a woman held up a ludicrous, patched-up teddy bear. Its button eye was hanging by a thread. “Ten bucks!” the woman chirped, her voice far too enthusiastic. Sarah could feel a vein throbbing in her forehead. She just wanted to leave.

The bear's arm flopped as the woman adjusted her grip. Sarah recognized the faded floral print of the bear's dress: it was Buttercup. *Buttercup?* Impossible. She distinctly recalled the bear being incinerated in the fireplace after a childhood tea party went horribly, horribly wrong.

“Just… no, thanks,” Sarah managed, her voice clipped. She turned to go. The woman, undeterred, lowered the bear’s price, her smile unwavering.

“Five!”