Chapter 7

Ryan discovered the problem the same way he discovered most of his problems in Willow Creek—by accident and with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The morning started fine—quiet and cold. He shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he set the kettle on the stove. He’d been meaning to fix the draft under the door, maybe patch the weird dent in the drywall near the pantry. Later, he’d told himself.

He turned on the hot tap to rinse a mug.

Nothing.

A thin trickle of water sputtered out, lukewarm at best, then chilled instantly. He frowned, twisted the handle further, tested again. Cold. Ice cold. The kind of cold that said, The universe hates you specifically, Ryan Meadows.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no—come on.”

He tried the bathroom sink, the shower—same result. He pressed his palm against the copper pipe beneath the kitchen sink. It felt like touching the inside of a refrigerator.

He crouched there for a moment, staring into the dark cabinet as if the answer might glow helpfully in the shadows.

It did not.

And then the realization dawned on him, heavy and grim ... the water heater.

He let out a defeated breath.

The small closet off the hallway housed the unit—an aging tank-style heater that had looked suspicious from the day he moved in. He’d planned to give it a “proper once-over,” the way people who actually knew things about houses did. Instead, he’d mostly ignored it, hoping it wouldn’t explode or burst into flames or demand tribute.

Now he stood in front of the narrow door, hand on the knob, posture tense like a man about to confront a monster. He opened it slowly.

The heater sat there, squat and rusty, humming faintly like it had a chest cold. A small puddle gleamed at its base, reflecting the dim bulb overhead.

“Oh, that’s ... that’s not encouraging.”

He crouched to inspect the puddle. It was warm at the edges—meaning water had been hot, but perhaps not recently.

He poked a small valve that looked important. It hissed in warning. He jerked his hand back instantly.

“Okay,” he said aloud, heart thumping. “Let’s not ... touch that again.”

He straightened up and looked at the tangle of pipes, bolts, and mysterious knobs like a man attempting to interpret ancient hieroglyphs. He squinted at a sticker on the front: Turn off gas before servicing.

“Servicing what?” he whispered.

Another sticker instructed him to “consult a licensed technician.”

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t I just ... learn this stuff? I’m opening a hardware store. This is pathetic.”

He attempted a few experimental taps on the tank—lightly, as though introducing himself. The tank clunked ominously in response, which he took as a personal threat.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now it hates me too.”

He pulled out his phone, hovered over the search bar. He typed: how to fix leaking water heater. The results looked like a list of increasingly dire medical emergencies.

He backed out of the search and tried again: simple water heater repair (for idiots).

Still terrifying.

He stared at the heater once more, jaw tight, shoulders sagging. Living in Willow Creek was supposed to be a fresh start, but right now it felt like a test he was failing spectacularly—with no one around to witness it except a very judgmental appliance.

He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and muttered, “I need help.”

Twenty minutes later, following Ryan’s reluctant text, Caleb’s old pickup rumbled into the driveway like a cough on wheels. Moesha hopped out of the passenger side before the engine finished rattling to a stop, her bright purple beanie bouncing as she jogged up the steps.

“Okay, where’s the patient?” she asked, already pulling her oversized hoodie sleeves up like she was preparing for surgery.