Gemotions

The morning sun glinted off the chrome bumper of Amelia's prized '67 Mustang. She had woken early, heart thumping a quick tattoo against her ribs, already anticipating the day's tasks. She'd made coffee, checked the locks on the front door, and peered through the blinds at the quiet street. Then, the silence broke, replaced by the whine of a tow truck. Her blood ran cold.

She yanked open the front door, shouting, "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" The tow truck driver, a burly man with a bored expression, pointed to a small, nearly invisible sign she'd missed in the pre-dawn darkness. It detailed the new, draconian parking restrictions.

Amelia’s stomach churned. This was a direct attack, she felt, a violation. Every muscle in her body was taut. She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture. "I'm calling the police," she hissed, her voice trembling slightly.