Gemotions

He whistled a tuneless melody, legs eating up the pavement. A brisk walk was all it took to get the blood pumping. Mark always felt like this after a good night's sleep. The old maple, his maple, was just around the corner, and he could almost taste the crisp, autumn air already.

The air snagged in his throat. Where the tree should have been stood a pile of wood chips and a sawed-off trunk.

His hands clenched. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He would find out who. He would *move* until he found out. It was a compulsion.