An hour later, defeat came on four legs. His golden retriever, Gus, nudged the door open, tail wagging. Gus was an optimist. He saw the full bowl not as a crisis, but as an extra-large, oddly positioned water bowl.

Mark looked at the lagoon. He looked at his phone. He looked at his one good work shirt, which he’d left draped over the towel rack.

As Gus lapped enthusiastically, a tiny, horrible pop echoed through the pipes. The water level dropped six inches. Gus sneezed, shook his head, and trotted off, a look of profound disappointment on his furry face.

"Okay," Mark whispered, his voice a hostage negotiator’s. "Okay. We can fix this."

He couldn't. He'd used the plunger. He'd used the other plunger. He'd even tried the "dish soap and hot water" trick his mother swore by, which now meant his bathroom smelled like a lemon-scented swamp.

His phone buzzed. His boss. “Where’s the Q3 report?”