the leak

The first time he called me about the leak, I could barely even pick out the dark spot in the ceiling paint—but he wasn't consoled.

“Please, uncle. I don't want mum to notice. I didn't do anything. It wasn't me.”

I lifted the kid up to the ceiling, guiding his hand to the spot.

“Can you feel it? Does it feel wet?”

He slowly nodded.

“Really? Alright. I'll give it a fresh coat of paint. There isn't much else we can do.”

I wish I had asked more questions that day, even if it meant I'd have left a little later. I knew I should've done better when he called me for a second time, in the middle of the night, with his voice quivering just a little more.

“I think it's getting bigger, the water. On the ceiling. I don't know, that's what mum says. I don't know if she's feeling well. Please come. I don't want it to get bigger.”

I could barely see a thing. Perhaps it was mold, or just the way my coat of paint from the last time had dried a little differently. I wiped the spot with a towel to pretend like I knew what I was doing, and righted some chairs that had tipped near the sofa. The kid winced when I hugged him goodbye.

A week later, my phone rang for the third time. His voice was soft and breaking. As he pleaded, I trudged up the steps to their house.

“The water, it doesn't stop,” he shouted, flinging open the door.

“What?”

“It keeps going. I don't know what it wants. Mother yells for it to stop. I can't make it stop.”

Holding his hand, he led me to hop through the maze of things in their apartment. His bruised feet seemed to know exactly how to navigate the carpet, nimbly avoiding the slippers and clothes strewn all about, kicking aside bottles and dodging shards of broken glass.

“See, there? It's still dripping.” He stood there, pointing upwards.

I could only see two drops of water, streaming down my nephew's face.