Gemotions

The notification beeped, interrupting Clara's concentration. She was in the middle of a pottery lesson. She glanced at the screen. "The shipment of rubber ducks is late. What do we do?" The text was from a number she didn't recognize. Clara, normally so composed, nearly dropped her clay.

She blinked, bewildered. Rubber ducks? She felt a hot flush creep up her neck. Her fingers instinctively reached to smooth her hair, a nervous habit. The studio, typically filled with the satisfying thump of the pottery wheel, now felt suffocating. She glanced around at the other students, their hands covered in clay, their faces focused. She couldn’t ask them.