The call came at 11:47 PM. Rain was lashing against the windows of the North Shore call centre, and the overnight dispatcher, a weary soul named Tui, almost didn’t pick it up.

For the next two hours, Mac worked in the cramped, hot linen closet, his headlamp cutting through steam. He drained the cylinder into buckets that Sarah and Mr. Chen ferried to the garden. He cut the split copper with a rotary tool—showering sparks that looked like tiny fireworks. He sweated on a new fitting, his hands steady despite the cold water soaking his knees.

“Next door. The Chens.”

Mac didn’t waste time on small talk. He followed her down the hallway. The sound was unmistakable—a pressurized hiss, the thundering slap of water hitting gib board, then carpet. He pushed open the door of a little girl’s room. There was a Frozen-themed bedspread, a stuffed penguin on the floor, and right above it, the ceiling was bowing like a pregnant belly, a single jet of hot water slicing through a crack.