Gemotions

The email arrived, a frantic plea from Mrs. Peterson: "Could you possibly help? Buster's out again!" Kevin snorted, the sound lost in the general din of his bustling workshop. He was knee-deep in a complex project, something the neighbors could never comprehend.

He’d known, of course, that Buster would escape. He’d seen the inadequate latch, the loose section of fence. He’d offered advice, a detailed blueprint even, but it was summarily dismissed.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking slightly. He briefly considered replying, offering his services again. He’d add a small "I told you so" in the email, in the form of a gentle reminder.

He decided against it. He had far more important things to do.