Gemotions

The clatter of Mr. Olsen’s lawnmower had stopped, replaced by a nervous shuffling and a hesitant knock. Mark opened the door to find his neighbor standing on his porch, his face etched with worry.

"Mark, I… I hate to ask," Mr. Olsen began, his voice barely a whisper. "That old willow… it’s dropping limbs. Right near my shed."

Mark looked at the tree, its weeping branches brushing against the fence. The old shed was where Mr. Olsen kept his tools, his heart and soul.

“No worries, Mr. Olsen,” Mark said, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll call my tree guy. He’s good. We’ll get it checked out first thing tomorrow.”