Gemotions

He’d been up since four, plagued by a restless unease that had settled in his chest like a lead weight. Now, staring at the empty patch of gravel where his beat-up pickup truck usually sat, the weight threatened to crush him. Michael slammed his hand against the hood of his neighbor's car in frustration, the metal cold and unyielding.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He immediately looked around, as if the truck might magically reappear. The sun beat down, intensifying the heat that he could already feel crawling up his neck. A flyer, tucked under the windshield wiper of the neighbor’s car, mocked him with its pristine white blankness. He ripped it off, crushing it in his fist.

His gaze flickered to the street, and back to the empty space where his truck should have been. It had to be a mistake. He ran back inside to find the registration and insurance information, his gait unsteady, his breath coming in shallow gasps.