Gemotions

The sunlight seemed to taunt Michael as he wandered through the rows of discarded items. Foreclosure loomed. He had a week. He'd sold everything of value. He needed a win, a miracle. Then he saw it: Mr. Snuggles, his childhood companion, his face nearly identical to the stuffed animal he had lost years ago. He felt a familiar ache, a pull towards something from the past. He ran his hand over the worn fur, his fingers tracing the outline of the missing eye.

He asked the vendor, a man with a handlebar mustache, "How much?" The man gave him a casual look. "Five bucks." Michael’s throat constricted. Five dollars. He had three, and a handful of change. He fought back the rising panic. He imagined his landlord's face, the bailiffs. "Can… can you hold it for me?" he stammered, hating the weakness in his voice.