Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the frantic drumming in David's chest. He stared at the newly-fallen pine in Mr. Peterson's garden, its branches splayed like a broken arm. His gaze flickered towards his own property, toward the towering, spindly willow that threatened his house.

He paced the length of his living room, his hands clasped behind his back. The wind howled, a mournful sound that amplified the tension in his shoulders.

"Should I call someone?" he muttered to himself, the question barely audible above the storm. The practical voice in his head urged him to be proactive, but another part of him resisted the thought of the cost, the hassle, the possible bad news.