Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as David stared at the devastation. He’d been the one to notice the cracks in the elm, the way it was leaning precariously toward Mrs. Peterson’s house. He'd mentioned it to his wife, but she'd said it was nothing to worry about. He should have insisted.

He found himself pacing his own property line, avoiding Mrs. Peterson’s gaze. He watched the cleanup crew, their machinery snarling like angry animals. He felt a throbbing ache in his temples, a pressure he couldn't quite release. He should have trusted his instincts.

His wife was inside, and he couldn't face her. He would never say it, but he felt responsible. He felt awful.