Right. The plunger.
Sarah froze. The bowl was empty. Then, from somewhere in the plumbing, a triumphant glug-gug-gug-gug echoed, and fresh water rose to its normal level, clear and calm.
She didn’t even look at it. She just flushed the toilet one more time, watched it drain perfectly, and whispered to the empty bathroom: unblock a toilet with a plunger
On the twelfth pump, the toilet made a sound—a deep, gurgling whoosh —and the water level dropped like a curtain.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Think.”
“I am a god.”
Glug.
Then she washed her hands for a full thirty seconds and went to bed, leaving the plunger where it stood—victorious, dripping, and waiting for the next time someone believed the words “flushable wipe.”