Lena came down with a glass of wine. “All good?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Dave said, already searching “clogged main sewer line” on his phone.
He fed a steel snake into the pipe—a roto-rooter with teeth like a fossilized dragon. The machine whined, chewed, reversed, whined again. Dave watched the cable disappear foot after foot: ten, twenty, fifty. At sixty-five feet, the machine stalled, groaned, and then spit . clogged main sewer line
Rick pulled more. A tangled ball of “flushable” wipes—which are never flushable—wrapped around the roots like a wet Christmas garland. The water in the basement gave a final, defeated sigh and drained. The toilet upstairs burped, then settled into a quiet, functional silence.
“All good,” Dave said. And for now, in the fragile truce between a family and its plumbing, it was. Lena came down with a glass of wine
“Yep,” Rick said. “Main line’s plugged solid.”
The internet was cheerful and terrifying. Do not flush. Do not run water. Call a plumber. Hope it’s not tree roots. Pray it’s not collapsed. Dave looked at the standing water creeping toward the water heater. He looked at his phone. He looked at the ceiling, as if the house might offer a discount. The machine whined, chewed, reversed, whined again
Dave paid Rick a sum that made his soul wince. Rick left a business card magnet on the fridge: “We’ve seen worse. Probably.”