Two days ago, we thought the heater was broken: a scent like rubber burning pervaded our morning. The repair man charged us $85 to do something vaguely mechanical, the equivalent of making sure the heater was plugged in, turned on, running in MS-DOS mode. “Nothing wrong,” he said. “Maybe it’s not your heater.”
The smell persisted, filled our house. My thumb cranked up the Plug-Ins, put boxes of baking soda behind the couch.
“Maybe it’s a skunk,” Dave suggested, stupidly naming that which I was content to pretend wasn’t happening. “Maybe a skunk sprayed the dog.”
“Shut your mouth.” I’m always, always a supportive wife. “That cannot be it.”
That was it.