Gemotions

The air in the garage was thick with the smell of sawdust and stale motor oil. Liam, his hands already raw from a long day of work, leaned against his workbench, trying to clear his head. A knock. It was Mrs. Petrov, her face grim.

She started in, her words a torrent about damage and costs. The tree, she said, had to go. Liam's jaw clenched.

He looked at the tree, visible through the opening of the garage door. He felt a wave of nausea. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The pressure in his chest increased with every spoken word.

He agreed to it, his voice tight. He watched her leave, the words of what he had agreed to hanging in the air.