Leo Finch, a man who believed his biggest problem that morning would be deciding between oat or almond milk for his coffee, stared at the screen. He lived in the top floor of a converted Victorian house. He owned the top floor. The “upstairs toilet” was, unequivocally, his.
Leo panicked. He abandoned the plunger and lunged for the toilet’s water supply valve, the little silver button that could cut off the apocalypse. He twisted it. It spun freely. Rust flaked off in his palm. The valve had long ago surrendered its duty; it was just a decorative silver knob now. upstairs toilet clogged
He hadn’t. The last time he’d used a plunger, he’d somehow managed to crack the porcelain of a toilet in his college dorm. He was asked never to return to that dorm. Leo Finch, a man who believed his biggest