I’ve owned this house for exactly eleven days, and I’m beginning to suspect the previous owner sold it because the plumbing was plotting murder. Buying my first home at twenty-six was supposed to be a milestone. Independence. Responsibility. Finally having somewhere to call my own. Instead, I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours learning three things. One: sewage should never come out of a shower drain. Two: flushing a toilet does not magically make the problem disappear. Three: whatever a “main sewer line replacement” costs, I’m probably going to cry. The first plumber I called took one look at the situation, muttered something about tree roots, and handed me an estimate that could’ve purchased a reasonably nice used car. I thanked him, closed the door, and briefly considered selling the house to a family of raccoons. Unfortunately, the raccoons probably have better credit. After three more phone calls and one particularly humiliating conversation with my bank, somebody recommended a local plumber named Dwayne Keller. Apparently, he’s been doing this for decades. Doesn’t advertise much. Doesn’t talk much either, according to the reviews. But everybody agrees on one thing. The man knows his pipes. So here I am, standing in my kitchen, staring at a sink full of water that absolutely refuses to drain. My phone buzzes.

KELLER PLUMBING: Outside.

That’s it. No greeting. No introduction. Not even a period. I glance through the window. There’s an old work truck in my driveway, its paint faded and its bed packed with equipment. A massive figure climbs out, retrieves a toolbox, and makes his way toward the porch. Then comes a knock. Three solid taps. I open the door. And suddenly, the plumbing isn’t the only thing leaving me speechless.