That’s when he called Chuck. The number came from a fridge magnet left by the previous tenant: “A-1 Emergency Plumbers – We Come Before Your In-Laws.”

Twenty-three percent. On twelve thousand dollars. For a toilet. Leo did the math in his head. He’d be paying off this flush until he was thirty-seven.

That’s what flashed on the small, cracked screen of the plumber’s card reader. Leo stared at it, then at the man holding the wrench—a guy named Chuck with a neck tattoo of a snake eating its own tail and a pair of muddy kneepads.

Another silence. “Fine. I’ll cover the repair. But you’re paying for the wipe.”

He smiled, pulled out his phone, and ordered a new pack of flushable wipes. Just to have around. For company.

Leo had signed that lease. He had even read it, once, while waiting for a burrito.