Maya pushes me toward the back molars
“You’ve got to get the whole thing, not just the front,” Maya says, eyebrows knitted.
I scoop a dab of the gritty paste onto the tip of the battered toothbrush.
“Okay, here goes,” I mutter, sliding it onto the back of my lower right molar.
The bristles scrape against the plaque, a sand‑like feeling against enamel.
Suddenly, a knife‑sharp sting erupts, searing through my jaw.
“Ow!” I gasp, the pain radiating like a cold needle.
“What the hell—” Maya’s voice cracks, eyes wide as she leans in.
My teeth throb, and a dark spot on the gum swells, revealing a cavity I’d never noticed.
“We’ve got a hole in there,” I whisper, half to myself, half to Maya.
She nods, the concern in her eyes turning to fear.
Chaos erupts as water storms the bathroom
Instinct throws me backward; the brush slips, flinging the paste onto the tile.
A slick, foamy splash spreads across the floor, glittering under the harsh light.
“Maya, call Mom—NOW!” I shout, voice trembling.
She snatches her phone, her fingers shaking, as she dials.
“Mom, I need you here. It’s an emergency,” she whispers, trying to keep her composure.
The moment her thumb lifts, the bathroom lights flicker, casting the room into a strobe of shadows.
A sudden, sickening roar rips through the silence—the pipe beneath the sink erupts.
Water gushes, a cold torrent that rushes across the floor, soaking the rug, the cabinets, the paste.
Our mother bursts through the doorway, eyes wide with alarm, as the flood surges toward her.
She steps in, hand outstretched, but the water swallows the space between us, the room a chaotic swirl of spray and screams.
