Gemotions

A tremor ran through Leo’s body as Mrs. Gable, her face a mask of polite concern, presented her request. The gnarled maple, its roots a haven, a secret world for the tiny things he'd long observed, was to be felled. “It's just become so untidy,” she'd said. Leo’s vision blurred; the vibrant green of the leaves seemed to dim.

He found himself staring at the dirt under his calloused fingernails, a wave of nausea washing over him. The air seemed thin, as if he were suffocating. Each ragged breath was a struggle.

"It's the shade, you see," Mrs. Gable continued, oblivious to the turmoil brewing within him. He forced a nod, his throat constricted, unable to utter a word.