“First,” she announced, pushing a kitchen stool to the sink. “We pour the baking soda.”
Mia tugged his sleeve. “No, Dad. The science lady at school said baking soda is magic.”
It was a Tuesday, the kind of slow, humid Tuesday where time seemed to stick to everything, especially the kitchen sink. Leo stared into the dark, wet maw of the drain. The water was draining slower than a turtle with a pulled muscle. A faint, sour smell—like forgotten vegetables and old secrets—wafted up.