Frank searched. Under the couch. Behind the water heater. Inside the box spring. Nothing.
Frank owned the pot. Frank was a structural engineer with a tidy mind and a three-ring binder for his grocery receipts. Beans owned the small, damp apartment above Frank’s garage. Beans was a rescued ferret with a genius for mischief and a particular vendetta against zippers. the frank and beans quandary
Then he heard it: a tiny, wet hork . A sound that speaks of regret, of chili-induced reflux, of a creature questioning every life choice that led to that moment. Frank searched
There was a loose baseboard near the floor register. Frank pried it off with a butter knife. Two beady, accusatory eyes stared out from the darkness. Beans was wedged between the studs, coated in chili, vibrating with a kind of profound, furry fury. He looked like a mutant hot dog that had lost a fight with a blender. Inside the box spring
It came from the wall.
In the end, Beans was bathed in the sink (he peed on Frank three times), the wall was patched with spackle, and the chili was deemed a total loss.
Frank reached in. Beans bit him. Hard.