“Mr. English?” a woman asked when I answered my phone, two days after the ad went live.
“Yes.”
“I’m having problems with my sink. It keeps backing up and nothing seems to work. Can you come take a look at it?”
“Sure. Are you at home now?” When she said she was, I told her I’d be there within thirty minutes. Since it was Monday, Trent was already at work. I was tempted to call him, to tell him I had my first job, but refrained. After all, with my luck the woman would take one look at me and change her mind. I had shaved, and my hair was tied back, but nothing could cover the fading bruise on my jaw or the lines on my face which said I’d had a hard life—especially since none of them came from smiling too much.
The house was in a suburban area of the city, two stories with a well-kept law
