Episode 5

Lucas

I woke up cold.

Not California cold, where you reach for a hoodie. German-house-in-November cold, where I could see my breath in the bedroom air.

I pulled on an extra sweatshirt before heading downstairs, feet freezing on the bare floorboards. The kitchen wasn't much warmer.

Yesterday's problem list sat on the kitchen table where I'd left it. I spread it out.

Broken shutters. Satellite dish pointing at the neighbor's roof. Leaky tap—drip-drip-drip constant in the background. The heater that quit randomly. Stuck windows. Cracked tiles. The dead rat situation.

I stared at it while chewing burnt toast.

Right. I needed a plan. Tap first—small victory, build confidence. Then the heater. Not freezing to death in rural Germany seemed like a solid goal.

The satellite dish could wait.

Actually, no. I needed TV. I needed something to work in this house.

I opened YouTube and searched for "how to fix a leaky faucet."

The guy in the video made it look simple. Smooth camera work, professional lighting, tools laid out perfectly. He unscrewed the aerator, replaced the washer, tightened everything back up. Done in five minutes.

I could do that. Five minutes, tops.

I saved screenshots of the steps, paused and rewound multiple times, took notes on my phone.

Then I tapped my phone. "Hey, where can I buy tools on a Sunday near Waldheim?"

The AI assistant responded almost immediately. "Great news! You're in luck. There's Sunday shopping available at a Baumarkt in the neighboring city, just 20 kilometers from your place. They're open today from 9 AM to 6 PM."

Sunday shopping. In Germany. On the exact day I needed it.

Lucky break.

I made a shopping list from my YouTube screenshots: adjustable wrench, screwdrivers—multiple sizes, probably—washers for the tap, some kind of sealant, duct tape.

Behind me, the tap kept up its steady drip-drip-drip.

Time to become a DIY master.

I grabbed my jacket and the rental car keys.

The drive took forty minutes through winding mountain roads. Pretty scenery, but I was focused on the mission.

The Baumarkt made Home Depot look like a corner store. I parked the rental among the serious-looking German DIYers and their determined Sunday-morning faces. Everyone meant business.

This time I came prepared. I grabbed a cart at the entrance, tossed my bags in, and pushed inside.

Chaos. Absolute chaos. The Sunday DIY crowd had intense energy. Everyone moved with purpose, carts loaded with stuff and houseplants, faces focused. Like the store had been closed for weeks and today was the grand reopening.

I looked for someone who worked here. A few dotted the aisles, but customers mobbed them. Rapid-fire German questions from all sides. No chance of getting help today.

Right. On my own. Phone screenshots it is.

I made my way through the crowd to the tool section.

Enormous and overwhelming. Walls of tools in every direction. Different brands, different sizes, everything labeled in metric. People reached around me constantly, grabbing things with confidence.

I pulled out my phone with the YouTube screenshots and started matching products.

The plumbing aisle earned its own special circle of hell. I stood there for ten minutes comparing tap washers while everyone around me found their thing in an instant. Everything looked the same but also completely different. Different sizes, different brands, German words I didn't understand.

I grabbed several sizes of washers and tossed them in. Better safe than sorry.

I followed the stream of confident shoppers from aisle to aisle, checking my phone screenshots against the wall of tools. Adjustable wrench set—grabbed it. Screwdriver set—multiple sizes, why not, in it went. Plumbing tape. Sealant that looked sort of like what the YouTube guy used. Everything in.

My cart gained weight. I kept walking.

A bucket for catching water—good idea. Extra towels in case things went really wrong. Various-sized screws because the house probably needed them somewhere. WD-40 for all the squeaky things I'd noticed.

Everything went in.

I was definitely buying more than I needed. But prepared felt better than clueless.

I navigated through the chaos to checkout, loaded with tools and confidence.

This time I was ready. Cart positioned. Bags already out. Mentally prepared for the speed-scanner German cashier.

She still scanned at lightning speed—they all did this, apparently—but I was ready.

I unpacked while she scanned. No fumbling this time. I bagged items as they came. Had my credit card already in my hand when she was announcing the price.

The transaction completed without incident. Without impatient Germans glaring behind me.

Victory.

I loaded everything into the trunk.

I drove home with tools clanking in the trunk, a satisfied smile on my face.

Time to fix the house. I had all the tools. This was going to be easy.

Back home, I spread all my new tools out on the kitchen counter. Toolbox open, wrenches arranged by size, washers lined up. I even set the bucket nearby just in case.

Professional. Prepared. I had this.

I propped my phone against the backsplash with the YouTube tutorial queued up.

I grabbed the flashlight I'd found in the basement yesterday, got down on the floor, and opened the cabinet under the sink. Dark and cramped. Smelled like old pipes and something damp I didn't want to identify.

The tutorial said, "First, turn off the water supply valve under the sink."

I found the valve and turned it clockwise. At least I thought it was clockwise. Stiff, but it turned.

I started unscrewing the aerator from the tap spout—the screwy bit at the end. Stuck. Completely rusted. Took real effort and leverage to get it loose, and my hands kept slipping on the wet metal.

Finally, it came free.

Water started dripping from somewhere inside.

I paused. That's normal, right? The video didn't show dripping.

I reached for the old washer to unscrew it from the valve fitting.

The drip became a steady stream, just pouring out.

"Okay, that's not normal." My hands went slippery. "That's definitely not normal."

I scrambled to tighten everything back—fingers slipping on wet metal—and somehow made it worse. The water pressure increased.

Water sprayed from the connection point and hit me square in the face.

Full panic mode. I tried covering the spray with my hand. Didn't work—obviously—water shot between my fingers, spraying my face, my clothes, the walls. The floor was flooding.

"STOP, STOP, STOP—where's the valve?!"

I grabbed the valve under the sink and turned it harder.

Wrong direction.

The pressure doubled. Water gushed from under the sink in a full fountain, hit the cabinet ceiling, splashed everywhere.

I lunged for the bucket and tried to block the gushing water. It shot right past. Too much pressure. The bucket was useless.

Water flooded across the kitchen floor, spreading fast toward the living room.

I threw towels at the expanding puddle. They soaked through instantly and did absolutely nothing.

"Basement! The main shutoff is in the basement!"

I sprinted for the basement stairs, soaking wet, water still gushing behind me. I could hear it hitting the walls.

The basement was pitch dark. I fumbled for the light switch, found it, scanned the walls frantically.

There—the breaker panel. And next to it, the main water valve on a pipe.

I cranked it shut with both hands.

Sudden silence.

Blessed, beautiful silence. No more gushing from upstairs.

I stood in the basement dripping, breathing hard, heart pounding.

I climbed back upstairs to survey the damage.

Water covered the entire kitchen floor. All my new towels soaked in a useless pile. Tools sitting in puddles. The bucket knocked over on its side, floating.

I stood there soaking wet—hair dripping, clothes plastered to me, shoes squelching.

My phone sat dry on the counter. At least something survived.

The YouTube tutorial kept playing cheerfully: "And that's it! Simple fix! Should take about ten minutes."

The guy on screen smiled like this was easy.

I couldn't help it. I started laughing.

Couldn't stop. It was completely absurd—standing in a flood, soaking wet, everything broken. I laughed until tears mixed with the water on my face.

I grabbed my phone and took a photo of the disaster. Sent it to Marcus: "I'm doing great. Everything's fine. Send help."

Marcus replied immediately: "WHAT DID YOU DO 😂"

Me: "Plumbing. Apparently I can't do plumbing."

Marcus: "I'm dying. PHOTO. Full disaster photo 😂😂😂"

I took a wider shot and sent it.

Marcus: "That's ART. Frame it."

I changed into dry clothes—couldn't stand being soaking wet anymore.

When I came back down, the water had spread even farther, creeping toward the doorway.

I grabbed the soaked towels and built a makeshift dam across the kitchen entrance. Not great, but it would have to do.

I found a roll of paper towels in the pantry and got to work mopping up the worst of the water. Handful after handful of soggy paper towels. The pile grew. My back started aching from crouching. But slowly, the massive puddle became just a wet floor.

Still soaked, but at least not flooded anymore.

That was the best I could manage right now. Out of quick fixes for the kitchen.

The satellite dish on the side of the house caught my eye through the window.

That would be easier. Just needed adjusting. Couldn't flood the house from the roof. Just point it at the sky and done.

I headed to the garage to find a ladder.

I found an old wooden ladder in the garage—dusty, worn, paint peeling off in strips. Probably been there for decades. I extended it, and it creaked ominously but held together.

I carried it to the side of the house and leaned it against the wall under the satellite dish.

The dish was pointing right at the neighbor's roof, not the sky. Completely wrong angle. The mount looked rusty.

I gave myself a little pep talk. "Just need to adjust the angle. Simple. No water involved. Can't flood anything from up here."

I tested the ladder. It wobbled slightly but felt stable enough.

Good enough.

I started climbing. The rungs creaked loudly under my weight with each step. I got about halfway up when movement caught my eye from the street.

Jasper walked past carrying two big bags, glass clinking.

I started to lift my hand to wave.

The ladder wobbled under the shift in weight, suddenly swaying away from the wall.

I grabbed it with both hands, heart jumping.

I looked back toward the street. Jasper was already gone—must've turned the corner toward the recycling bins. Didn't see me on the ladder.

Okay. Focus. Eyes on the dish.

I continued climbing carefully until I reached the satellite dish level and stretched to reach the mounting bracket.

The bolts were rusted solid. I tried the first one—completely seized. Repositioned my grip. Tried again. Nothing.

The ladder creaked beneath me.

Second bolt. I shifted my weight for better leverage. Applied pressure. It gave slightly, then stuck. I worked it back and forth.

My arms started aching from holding the awkward position. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cold.

Third bolt—same problem. I went back to the first one, trying a different angle. The wrench slipped. My fingers were getting numb.

This should've been a five-minute job.

One more try. I leaned my weight into it, pushing hard.

The ladder wobbled more, suddenly swaying away from the wall, tilting backward into air.

I grabbed for the satellite dish mount to steady myself.

The mount shifted under my grip—loose, couldn't support my weight. Metal grinding.

The ladder tilted backward, past the balance point.

"Shit—shit shit shit—" I hissed through clenched teeth.

My stomach dropped. Too high. This was going to hurt bad.

"Hey!" A shout from below—alarmed, urgent.

Rushed footsteps on pavement, fast.

Strong hands slammed into the ladder base.

"I've got it!" Jasper's voice, strained with effort.

The ladder jolted back against the wall and stabilized.

I gripped the dish mount with white knuckles, heart hammering so hard I could hear it, breathing in short gasps.

I looked down.

Jasper held the ladder base with both hands, bracing it against the wall with his full body weight. He looked up at me, worry mixed with something that might've been amusement.

"That was close. Are you okay?"

My brain was still catching up to not falling. How was Jasper here? Wasn't he gone?

"I—yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." My voice came out shaky.

"Come down. Slowly. I've got the ladder."

His hands stayed firm on the base.

I descended carefully, testing each rung. Jasper kept the ladder steady below.

My feet hit solid ground. Legs shaking. Knees weak.

I turned to face him.

We were standing close. He still had one hand on the ladder, breathing slightly hard, like he'd sprinted to get here in time.

He looked at the old wooden ladder, then back at me.

"That ladder's not safe." He paused. "What were you trying to do?"

My heart was still hammering. The adrenaline made everything sharp—the concern in his eyes, how close we were standing, the fact that he'd just sprinted over to save me from my own stupidity.

"The satellite dish," I managed. "It's pointing at the neighbor's roof. I thought—"

I stopped. Looked at the ancient ladder. At Jasper still holding it steady. At the way he was looking at me like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or lecture me about ladder safety.