It was 11:47 PM, and Leo was staring at a disaster. Not the kind involving fire or flood, but the kind that makes a grown man break a sweat in a cramped apartment bathroom.
Leo plunged. Once. Twice. A thick, wet thwump echoed from the pipes, but the water level didn’t drop. Instead, it rose.
“NO—!”
Because next time, the question might be: will a toy dinosaur clog the toilet? And he already knew the answer.
He retrieved it from the hall closet, a rusty, unglamorous tool he’d bought three years ago and never used. As he fed the coiled cable into the drain, Mia patted his leg.
“Is the cloud going bye-bye?”
He remembered the internet debates. The “flushable” wipes scandal. The camping rule: only what you eat, and the paper that wipes it. But this… this was a crime scene of cellulose.