Greg stared at the dripping faucet, its rhythm a taunt. He’d watched three YouTube videos. How hard could it be? Armed with a wrench and the confidence of a man who’d once changed a tire (twice), he tightened the valve. Water sprayed like a broken sprinkler. ‘Shit,’ he said, dodging the geyser. The kitchen floor was a lake. Mrs. Jenkins, neighbor and human encyclopedia, appeared at the door. ‘You’ve got a leak,’ she stated, peering over her glasses. ‘I’m on it,’ Greg said, wading through ankle-deep water. Mrs. Jenkins sighed, retrieving a towel that looked like a superhero cape. ‘Let me show you,’ she said, wringing the fabric like a mad scientist. The faucet hissed, then sputtered to silence. Greg blinked. ‘You just…’ ‘Tried not to overthink it,’ she said, tossing the towel into a pile of Greg’s failed attempts. The sink dripped once, then quit. ‘Thanks,’ Greg muttered, eyeing her toolbox—a glittery pink set with a tiny wrench. Mrs. Jenkins winked. ‘Next time, just call me.’ She left, leaving Greg to stare at the now-silent faucet, half-convinced it had surrendered to her charm.’,
