Arthur arrived, lugging a thick, ceramic jug with a hazard diamond the color of dried blood. The label read: Sulfuric Acid – 93% – For Industrial Use Only.

Arthur P. Hargrove, a man whose face looked as if it had been pickled in brine and whose overalls were a museum of chemical stains, was the town’s only drain cleaner. He didn’t use snakes or plungers. Arthur believed in the direct approach: sulfuric acid.

“No, ma’am,” Arthur said, loading his jug back into the truck. “You don’t kill a clog. You just scare it deep underground where it can’t hurt anyone. But remember this: that acid is still down there, diluted but not defeated. It’s eating the scale off the terra-cotta pipe. It’s turning the iron deposits into soluble salts. It’s a slow, hot poison in the veins of your house.”

Mrs. Gable yelped. The drain gurgled like a dying beast. The standing water began to swirl, not gently, but with a frantic, boiling motion. Chunks of the clog—black, fibrous, ancient—were carbonized and shot up in tiny, fizzy explosions.