Marjorie held the frame at a 45-degree angle, her forehead beading with sweat as she muttered, “This is just a nail. A single nail.” The wall behind it looked innocent, all blankness and judgment. She swung the hammer again. The frame tilted, then *crashed* onto the floor, scattering dust bunnies like confetti. Mrs. Petrovich’s voice boomed from the hallway: “Is someone dying?” Marjorie froze, one foot on the frame’s edge. “Just… a minor earthquake,” she called, yanking the hammer behind her back. Mrs. Petrovich burst in, clutching a rolling pin like a weapon. “I heard a *thud*!” She peered at the wreckage. “This is why you use a level,” she said, snatching the frame. Marjorie opened her mouth to explain the 10-step process of wall-dwelling, but Mrs. Petrovich was already hammering. The frame hung crookedly, tilting left like a drunk seagull. “There,” Mrs. Petrovich said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Now it looks like a Picasso.” Marjorie stared at the lopsided frame. “It’s… authentic,” she said, wondering if death was still an option.
