Gemotions

The air in the pawn shop felt thick, suffocating. David's hands were clammy, and he kept wiping them on his jeans. He hadn't slept properly in days, and it was showing. His jaw was clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a tooth.

He surveyed the familiar clutter – the faded watches, the chipped porcelain dolls, the piles of mismatched silverware – with a growing sense of outrage. The ring, his grandmother's, was in there somewhere. He knew it. He’d practically memorized the catalogue, scanning for anything remotely resembling it.

He spotted it. His breath caught. It was displayed next to a plastic toy gun. The incongruity of it was almost too much. He took a step forward, his legs suddenly feeling unsteady.

"I need to know how much," he said, his voice a low growl, barely audible above the hum of the overhead fan. He felt a burning sensation behind his eyes. He had to have it back.