Gemotions

The school felt smaller than he remembered. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. The parking lot was a concrete jungle, and he felt a primal urge to tear through it, just to *do* something. He’d barely managed a civil nod to Mrs. Gable at the front desk.

He’d known, of course. He’d known the teacher’s name. He'd just... hoped. He pushed open the classroom door, the hinges protesting.

There she was. Mrs. Peterson. Same tight bun, same severe glasses, same carefully neutral expression. His chest tightened. He almost turned and bolted. He hated this.