They first notice the water in the basement, standing water, clear and coating the concrete floor in the mechanical room. He feels the south wall, notes it’s damp. A faulty line, a broken pipe, somewhere in the bowels of their remodeled home. 

She wonders, how can they find it, how do they spot the breach? Their children don’t realize: it’s all behind the walls. And she, she forgets too. The wires and pipes that run vertical and parallel, between the studs, through the beams, carrying water, producing heat, enabling electricity to course through the body of the house like a current of nerves and tangle of vessels through flesh.

They do without flowing water, fill jars and growlers and water bottles from the tap before shutting the water completely off. They need to wash hands after the potty, clean the high chair after a messy lunch, ready the vegetables for dinner. They let the dirty dishes pile up in the sink, avoid flushing the toilet. She notices she uses the same plate again and again instead of getting out a new one, she reuses the damp washcloth to wipe down the counter and breakfast nook. She conserves out of necessity.

They do detective work: turn one system on, the other one off, decipher which is faulty. But it’s hard to tell. Both the hydronic heating system and domestic water run through similar pipes. He calls the plumber. It’s Sunday, of course. Two large men arrive at the house, stomp down the stairs, circle the exterior, inspect the siding, rip out the drywall. They trace the damp wall in the basement to pipes that disappear into a large beam. “That’s as far as we can go.” The PEX disappears into the bowels of the house, weaving through the walls, behind painted drywall, behind photos and artwork hung on the walls. Who knows where the fault lies?

Her husband tells her: they used to use copper, but it’s all plastic now. Copper’s too expensive. She remembers, vaguely, when they were building the house, commenting that there was no protection for the plastic pipes, no assurance they wouldn’t be punctured, sitting undefended behind a superficial barrier. Everyone reassured her. She knew nothing about construction, about this sort of thing. 

An infrared camera is borrowed, reveals the heat, the coolness behind the walls: clues to the origin of the drip, of the gushing water. “It’s gotta be here.” They get on their hands and knees, realize the unevenness of the wood floor in the entryway, the bowing of the tigerwood panels. Water damage. They never would’ve noticed had they not pulled out the shoe rack, the coat rack, traced the leak from down below to up above. They keep going, follow the path. Up on the ceiling though, where the pipes crawl down from the master bathroom, there’s no water damage, no discoloration to indicate a leak from higher up. 

He traces back down the entryway wall, confirming. “It’s gotta be here.” He rips out the drywall with his hands; it comes too easily. He pulls out the soaked insulation, traces his fingers up the exposed wall. “Ah!” He exclaims. A nail, a nail placed years ago, half a decade ago, missed the stud. Someone someday with a nail gun moving too quickly. Someone someday installing the pipes, didn’t see, didn’t look for the nail. Someone someday sealed it all up, insulation blown in, drywall enclosing like a layer of skin. The nail’s sharp point remained exposed, right beside four plastic pipes, coursing up, coursing down the wall. 

A few minutes later and he’s figured it out: the hydronic heating system, not the domestic water. They can bathe, they can wash, they can do the laundry and flush the toilet. They can turn on a tap and cool clean drinkable water will flow: a marvel, really. A marvel, too, that stray nail and an unfortunate series of events. It makes her wonder what else lies beneath the exterior, what tiny insignificance of today may resurface years later as a consequence, a surprise, an unexpected disruption.