She waited ten minutes. Boiled the kettle. Poured the hot water down.

“Right,” she muttered. “Desperate times.”

First, she scooped out as much standing water as she could with a yoghurt pot. It was grim work, but necessary. Then she poured half a box of bicarbonate soda straight into the drain—a white, dusty avalanche disappearing into the black. She waited two minutes, listening. Nothing.

Then— glug .

She didn’t measure. She just tipped. The moment the clear liquid hit the powder, the sink coughed. A deep, volcanic fwoomp echoed up the pipe. White foam erupted from the drain like a science fair experiment gone rogue—bubbling, hissing, fizzing with an angry, satisfying energy. Sophie jumped back, then laughed. The foam crawled over the drain cover, fizzed for ten more seconds, and slowly began to sink.

Sophie stared at the kitchen sink. The water had been sitting there for two hours, a murky, greasy testament to last night’s pasta disaster. Plunging had failed. The chemical drain cleaner under the sink smelled like a threat. She’d seen the memes about calling a plumber—how it would cost more than her first car.