Gemotions

He’d just wanted a quiet evening. Dinner, maybe a movie. Instead, Thomas found a barren space where his vintage Mustang had been parked. He stood there, shoulders slumped, rain plastering his hair to his forehead.

A wave of nausea churned in his gut. The keys felt useless in his pocket. He was already behind on bills. This... this was the final straw. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture a frantic plea for something, anything, to go right.

"Fantastic," he choked out, the word brittle. He pictured the impound lot, the fees, the long walk to work tomorrow. The prospect was like a lead weight pressing down on his chest.