Gemotions

He hadn't slept well. The new neighbor, with his loud parties and unfamiliar vehicles, made him anxious. He'd stayed up late, watching the street, listening for anything out of place. This morning, a new sound: the whine of a winch.

He charged out the front door, hair disheveled, fists clenched. His car was halfway onto the flatbed. "Hey!" he yelled, chest heaving. "What do you think you're doing?" He felt a burning in his gut, a deep sense of wrongness.

The tow truck driver, a middle-aged woman, pointed to a sign. He barely looked at it. His focus was on the machine, the menace of its hook and cable. He made a mental note to complain to the HOA.