Gemotions

The tow truck driver, a hulking figure with a greasy cap, just looked at Sarah like she was an idiot. Her own driveway, clearly marked with her address, the car, her car, disappeared. "There must be some mistake," she’d stammered, heart hammering. He’d shrugged, the universal gesture of indifference. "Regulations." The word hung in the air, heavy with bureaucratic dismissal. Her cheeks burned.

She marched back into the house, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the framed pictures in the hallway. Her phone was in her purse, still in the car. Damn it all. She needed to call her insurance. And then, probably, her lawyer. The audacity of it!

Her hands trembled as she dialed the number for the towing company, each ring a hammer blow against her already frayed nerves. The automated voice grated on her, each recorded instruction a fresh affront. They would pay for this.