Gemotions

Liam slammed his fist on the table, rattling the salt shaker. "No way," he growled under his breath. The greasy spoon, "Harold's Hangout," had been his sanctuary. The news – a hand-scrawled sign taped to the door – felt like a personal affront.

He stood up, his heart pounding. The aroma of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee, usually so comforting, now felt like a taunt. He had to do something.

He started making calls, rallying friends and regular customers. He typed up a flyer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. By sunset, he was standing on a milk crate outside Harold's, megaphone in hand, urging the town to save the diner.