Gemotions

The spreadsheet blurred before Amelia's eyes. Each cell, a tiny prison. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a familiar habit whenever deadlines loomed. This project was critical, and Mr. Henderson's constant hovering wasn't helping. She felt the pressure building in her chest, a knot she couldn't seem to loosen.

"Amelia, you almost done with those quarterly reports?" Mr. Henderson's voice, chirpy as a summer bird, made her jump.

"Almost, sir," she managed, her voice a little too high. She needed to escape, even for a moment. Suddenly, she saw it: a small, faded picture on his desk. A cabin, a lake, and a familiar, goofy-looking kid wearing an oversized life jacket.

"Is that... Camp Woodchuck?" she blurted out, surprised.