The first warning sign was the groan. Not a human groan—a plumbing groan. The kind of low, resonant vibration that suggests cast iron pipes are questioning their life choices. Kevin, scrolling through his phone on the toilet, ignored it. He flushed.

The old toilet in apartment 4B had seen a lot. It had weathered the curry nights of the ‘90s, the disastrous “flushable” wipes incident of 2008, and the time the neighbor’s cat fell in. But nothing—nothing—had prepared it for what happened on a humid Tuesday night in July.

He did. And as the humid July air mixed with the lavender-poopy breeze, Kevin made a silent vow. No more burritos. And from now on, he’d buy the good plunger.

But Kevin had already flushed again. A reflexive, terrified third flush. The water breached the rim. A brown, tragic tide spread across the white linoleum, lapping at his bare feet. He squeaked.

“How much poop, Kevin?”