I came down for coffee this morning and realized the pot was empty. Rats, I thought. I was sure I had filled it the night before. It was no use brewing it again, I didn’t have much time to get ready. I went back to my bedroom, a little less awake than before, to find my laundry still wet in the dryer. Rats again, I thought. Well, if my clothes are going to smell anyway, there’s no point in showering. I threw on my mildewy clothes and headed to the garage. Waiting for me was a stubborn spark plug and a flat tire.

Rats.

It has to be them. I don’t know what I did to anger them, but they’ve been terrorizing me for weeks. Stupid, slimy, scheming rodents—there’s no proof of course. They’re too good for that, but I know it’s them. I just wish I could prove it.