Gemotions

"Oh, *wow*," Mark breathed, the word a burst of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He'd been sipping his coffee, watching the dawn paint the sky when the crash happened. The sound had been immense, and then silence. Now, he gazed across the fence at the wreckage: a towering pine, felled and splayed across old man Peterson's garden.

He practically skipped across his own lawn, the ground feeling springy beneath his feet. "Mr. Peterson!" he called out, his voice sharp and bright.

He’d already formulated a plan, a meticulously detailed list of steps to undertake. He would get the chainsaw, and with a few friends, get the area cleaned up in record time. He was already picturing the precise cuts, the efficient teamwork.