Gemotions

“Look, Dad,” his daughter pleaded, her voice tinged with exasperation. “There’s nothing you can do.” He didn’t look at her. He continued to pace, a slow, deliberate circuit around the perimeter of the property. The wind whipped at his clothes, a constant, nagging presence. He felt his face, tight and rigid, as if carved from stone. He would not surrender. He would not give in. He would not agree. His gaze fixed on the familiar silhouette of his home, now framed by the ominous shapes of the approaching machinery.