Gemotions

The blood drained from Harold’s face as Mr. Peterson, his neighbor, made his request. A garden. In *his* yard. The thought was absurd. His lawn was his masterpiece, a living canvas of emerald green.

Harold's throat constricted, making it difficult to speak. He swallowed hard. The sun, suddenly, felt oppressively hot on his skin. He wanted to shout, to rail against the injustice of the situation.

Mr. Peterson, oblivious, continued to drone on about tomatoes and zucchini. Harold could only manage a weak, "I'll have to consider it." The phrase tasted like ash in his mouth.