Gemotions

A cold knot formed in Michael's stomach. He stood at the edge of the property, the chain-link fence a flimsy barrier between him and the looming threat. The backhoe, a monstrous yellow beast, sat poised, its bucket dripping oil in the dying sunlight. He had been circling the block for hours, a restless energy coursing through him.

He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the cracked pavement. He checked his watch. Surely, they wouldn't start now, at dusk. He had to be prepared. He pulled his phone from his pocket, opening the notes app. He'd documented every crack in the foundation, every loose shingle. He knew the house intimately, and he was ready to defend it.

He imagined what the house would look like tomorrow. It wouldn't exist, and he would have failed. He wouldn't let them. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.