Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. His breath came in shallow, rapid pants. This couldn't be happening. His mind raced, replaying every detail from last night: the late dinner, the rushed unloading of groceries, the casual dismissal of a small, nagging doubt about the angle of the wheels. Now, the space where his beat-up pickup truck resided was starkly vacant.

He kept glancing up and down the street, each car a potential culprit, each passing pedestrian a harbinger of bad news. A tremor ran through him. He imagined the hefty towing bill. The arguments.

"Damn it," he hissed, his voice cracking slightly. He kicked at a small stone, sending it skittering across the pavement. He needs to call the towing company. He'd put it off. The phone felt heavy.