Then, she uncapped the vinegar.

“We’re dancing!” the baking soda cried, its structure breaking apart into water, salt, and that furious, joyful gas.

It wasn’t violent—it was joyous. A million tiny bubbles burst to life, fizzing and foaming and hissing like a caged storm set free. The carbon dioxide gas formed a frantic, churning foam that climbed the drain walls, lifting the grime, loosening the hair’s death-grip, scrubbing the soap scum into submission.

After ten minutes, the woman ran the hot water. A torrent of clean, steaming liquid rushed down, washing away the spent foam, the loosened muck, the dead.