Gemotions

He usually avoided the city center, the crowds, the noise. But the bus fare was covered, and the promise of a lead on a potential job, thanks to his uncle, had pulled him downtown. He walked into the pawn shop, the bell above the door jangling a discordant welcome. He felt a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach.

Inside, the air smelled of stale cigarettes and desperation. He’d never been good at anything on his own, always needing someone to guide him, tell him what to do. His gaze fixed on a small, velvet box in the jewelry display. He recognized the intricate filigree. Grandma Rose’s ring.

The shopkeeper, a man with a perpetually furrowed brow, saw the way his fingers twitched, the way he hesitated. He named a price far below what it was worth, and Mark's shoulders slumped. He felt a wave of nausea. He had to have it.