The chaos started with one simple mission: help my dad finally clean out his old detached garage. The place hadn’t been touched since the early 2000s, and stepping inside felt like entering a time capsule built from dust, rust, and abandoned home-improvement dreams.
The air smelled like stale motor oil and damp cardboard. Shelves bowed under the weight of mystery boxes, tangled holiday lights, mismatched tools, and gadgets that looked like they belonged either in a sci-fi movie or a medieval museum. It was the ultimate “Dad Garage”—a place where everything seemed important, even if no one knew why.
My friend Liam had joined to help, mostly for moral support, partly for the comedy. We were working through a cluttered corner when I reached behind an old snow shovel and grabbed something that did not feel like a tool. It was rubbery, stretchy, black, and woven with tiny metal chains ending in textured nubs.
My stomach dropped.
Liam took one look at the object and raised an eyebrow.
“Dude,” he said, fighting a grin, “are you sure your dad doesn’t have a secret life?”
Instant panic. My face went red. My brain sprinted through every horrible possibility, and none of them were things I wanted to associate with my very normal, very practical father. I laughed nervously, the kind of laugh that means, please let this be something boring.
Continue reading on next page…