Sarah carefully pried the pages apart under running water. Most were ruined—smears of purple ink, drawings of cats and rainbows dissolved into abstract art. But one page near the middle had been protected by a waxy candy wrapper. The ink, though faded, was clear.
It was a child’s rubber duck. Not a modern one—this was an old-fashioned type, faded from yellow to pale cream, with a chipped black eye and a crack along its beak. The word “BATH” was stamped on its bottom in letters too worn to read clearly. blocked kitchen drain outside
Mike retrieved it with a pair of barbecue tongs. The cover was swollen, the pages stuck together like a brick of gray pulp. But the first page, written in a child’s loopy purple marker, was still legible: “The Secret Book of Evie Hart, Age 8. Do NOT read!!!” Sarah carefully pried the pages apart under running water
On the fifth day, the snake hit something big. Not a thunk this time—a boom , a hollow, resonant sound like a drum. Mike fed more cable. The machine strained. And then, with a shudder that vibrated through the foundation of the house, the blockage gave way. The ink, though faded, was clear
“So how did this get from the bathroom to the kitchen pipe?” Sarah whispered.
They didn’t have an answer. But later that evening, as Sarah was boiling pasta for dinner, she glanced at the rubber duck on the windowsill. The afternoon sun caught its chipped black eye, and for just a moment, she could have sworn it was winking at her.
They stared at the duck. It seemed almost mournful, trapped for nearly a decade in a lightless world of grease and murk. Sarah felt a strange pang of tenderness. She washed it properly with dish soap, dried it, and set it on the windowsill above the sink.