Gemotions

"Well, that's just perfect," Michael said aloud, though the words were barely a whisper. The fallen willow, its weeping branches now a tangled mess across the fence line, filled him with a strange dread. He immediately started to imagine the phone call from Mr. Peterson. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers finding purchase in the short, bristly strands. It was all such a mess. His mind raced, calculating potential costs, the time it would take to clean up, the inevitable arguments.

He instinctively reached for his phone, but stopped. He wanted to call someone, but didn't know who. He started pacing the room, his movements jerky and disjointed. His mind was in overdrive, anticipating every possible outcome.