Pete had forty years of tools and no roof to put them under. He sat in his service van with the engine off, staring at his own name painted on the hood. Pete the Plumber. Bold letters, blue pipes, ready for work. But a plumber needs a shop. He needed a place to store his wrenches, meet customers, and hang a sign the whole town could trust. Without walls, he was just a man parked on the street with a truck full of pipe. He wanted the biggest, most trusted plumbing shop this town had ever seen. Right now he could not even open. His tools rattled in the back every time he braked. Water heaters, copper coils, a hundred fittings in labeled bins. All of it homeless. He had spent his savings on the van and the stock. He had nothing left for a lease he could not find. He had driven every street twice. Empty storefronts sat locked and dark. One owner wanted three years paid upfront. Another laughed when Pete said the word plumber. "We already have a handyman," the man said, and shut the door. Then Pete saw it. A small wooden building at the end of a quiet block, blue-green boards faded by weather. A wide front window. A narrow door beside it. A hand-painted board hung crooked above the glass: PIPEWRIGHT OFFICE. The place had been a plumber's shop once. He could see the ghost of old shelving through the dirty window. A paper flapped on the door. FOR LEASE. A phone number. Pete called before he could talk himself out of it. A tired voice answered. The building had sat empty two years. Nobody wanted it. The pipes inside were a mess. "I fix pipes," Pete said. "That's the whole job." The owner named a rent Pete could actually pay. There was one condition. The water had been shut off for years. If Pete wanted it, he took it as it stood, broken plumbing and all. Pete looked through the window at the wall where a pegboard still hung. He pictured his wrenches on those hooks. He pictured a fresh sign. "I'll take it," he said. He signed the lease that afternoon on the van's hood. The owner handed him a single brass key. Pete unlocked the door and stepped inside. Dust hung in the light. The air smelled of mildew and old metal. He set his toolbox on the floor and it echoed. Then he turned the handle on the utility sink out of habit. The tap groaned. A pipe under the floor gave a deep, wet knock. Brown water spat into the basin, then kept running. Pete crouched and pressed his palm to the boards. They were already damp. Somewhere below him, a pipe had burst, and the water was rising. He had his shop. Now he had a flood.