He boiled his kettle, let it cool for thirty seconds (so it wouldn’t crack old pipes), and poured it down. The water disappeared instantly. No swirl. No hesitation. Just a clean, hungry drain.
Leo ran the tap for a full minute to rinse everything out. Then he leaned against the counter, victorious at midnight, holding the empty baking soda box like a trophy.
He pulled the box from the back of the pantry, a little crumpled at the corners. Next to it, a nearly forgotten jug of white vinegar. His grandmother’s voice surfaced from memory: “Leo, don’t call a plumber before you try the volcano. It’s not just for science fairs.”
“Okay,” he whispered to the empty apartment. “Baking soda. People swear by it.”