Gemotions

He’d been anticipating trouble all week. The neighborhood had been rife with petty theft, and Daniel, homeowner and protector of his domain, had been sleeping with one eye open. The slightest noise – a rustle in the leaves, the distant bark of a dog – sent him bolting upright. Now, as he walked outside to retrieve the newspaper, he saw the back of his Honda disappearing onto the flatbed of a tow truck.

His breath hitched. He sprinted, yelling, "Stop! You can't do that!" His hands clenched into fists. He barely registered the sign, obscured by a rogue bush, detailing the new "no parking" zone.

“It's my driveway,” he stated, his voice a low growl, each word measured and deliberate. “And you are not authorized to be there.” He eyed the driver, a skinny man with shifty eyes. He’d seen this before, he thought, a sense of deep distrust rising within him.