Gemotions

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Michael fished for his phone, fumbling with the screen. He needed to call someone, *anyone*, to make sense of this absurd situation. The blacktop where his vintage Mustang had been parked was pristine and empty. He’d meticulously waxed it yesterday. Now, nothing. Just the faintest oil stain where it used to be. A trickle of sweat snaked down his temple, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing the grime. He imagined the tow truck, the driver’s smug face. The audacity! He took a long, shaky breath. He had to think.