Calling the Professional
Finally, Sarah put her foot down. “Mark, the sprays aren’t working. I found one in the silverware drawer this morning. That’s it. Call a professional.” Mark resisted—it was expensive, and his pride was hurt—but he caved. Two days later, a van pulled up. A man named Dave, looking like he’d seen it all, walked in with a heavy-duty flashlight and a clipboard.
Dave did a thorough inspection. He looked behind the fridge, under the sink, and pulled off the kickplate of the dishwasher. He stood up, sighed, and looked at Mark. “So,” Dave said. “When did you see the first one?” “About six weeks ago,” Mark admitted. “A huge one. I stepped on it.” Dave’s expression changed instantly.