The metal wrench clattered against the copper pipe under the kitchen sink, a sharp clang that made me drop the plastic bottle of pediatric liquid steroid onto the table. The bottle rolled twice and stopped against a loaf of white bread.
Tony groaned softly from beneath the low cabinet, his shoulders dragging against the grey linoleum floor of our Toledo kitchen. He slid his torso out slowly, his forehead glistening with a thin sheen of grease and sweat from the humid, cramped space under the pipes.
He sat on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, rubbing his calloused palms against his blue work trousers. A dark smudge of pipe thread compound stained his left knee, spreading over a small tear in the fabric.
“The threads on the cold water valve are completely stripped,” Tony said, his voice flat and low.
I picked up the medicine bottle and placed it into the green canvas travel bag. I tucked it next to three other prescription vials, a box of sterile syringes, and two packets of saline wipes. My mother’s heavy silver bracelet lay on the cracked laminate counter right beside the bag, its thick links catching the pale morning light that filtered through the window.
“Can we just turn the water valve off and leave the repair until we get back?” I asked, looking at the dark water stain spreading on the particle board under the sink.
“If I shut it off now, you will not have water in the kitchen sink for five days,” Tony said.
I twisted my silver wedding band around my finger, the cool metal scraping slightly against my knuckle. The flight to Orlando was scheduled for next Tuesday, and my mind could not find room for both the plumbing and the packing at the same time.
“We can use the bathroom sink to wash the cups and the plates,” I said. “Just wrap some tape around it and let it be.”
Tony looked down at the brass plumbing joint in his hand, his eyes dull with a fatigue that seemed to go deeper than a long shift at the apartment complex. He did not look directly at me when he spoke.
