Gemotions

The morning sun glinted off the chrome of the tow truck. A burly man in a greasy overall was wrestling with the winch, his movements slow and deliberate. Sarah's jaw tightened. She marched from her porch, her boots thudding against the flagstones, and planted herself squarely in front of her beloved, aging Volvo. "Just what do you think you're doing?" she demanded, her voice a sharp crack in the morning air.

The tow truck driver grunted, gesturing at a poorly printed sign that he said gave him permission to act. Sarah scrutinized the paper. Utterly ridiculous! She pushed back her sleeves, the fabric bunching around her forearms. This was her property. She would not be intimidated. "Absolutely not," she stated, folding her arms. "I haven't broken any rules."

Her brow was creased with resolve, her posture rigid, a barrier between the truck and her car. He wouldn't get away with this. Not on her watch.