For the next hour, the jetter roared, scouring the old clay pipes until they ran clean. Tane even ran a camera down the line, showing Sarah the video on his screen: a smooth, clear tunnel where yesterday there had been a greasy dam.
Sarah led him to the kitchen. He knelt, sniffed, and nodded. “Grease, most likely. Old pipes plus cold water solidifying oil. Happens all the time in these villas.”
Outside, the Auckland rain kept falling—but for the first time in days, Sarah wasn’t listening for a gurgle. She was just glad there were people like Tane, knee-deep in mud and grease, keeping the city’s drains alive. One teaspoon at a time.