The next blockage came three days later. This time, the snake brought up a rusted teaspoon. Then a marble. Then a shard of blue ceramic—part of a saucer, maybe. Each object was a tiny time capsule, a domestic fossil from the family who had lived there before. Sarah started a collection on the kitchen counter: the Drain Museum, Mike called it.

“It’s blocked,” he said, stating the obvious with the calm of a man who had seen worse.

They stared at the duck. It seemed almost mournful, trapped for nearly a decade in a lightless world of grease and murk. Sarah felt a strange pang of tenderness. She washed it properly with dish soap, dried it, and set it on the windowsill above the sink.

“Today I flushed Daddy’s stupid tie down the toilet. It was ugly anyway. Tomorrow I will flush Mom’s lipstick. She said I couldn’t have any dessert. This is war.”

Sarah looked at Mike. Mike looked at the notebook.