Beans, meanwhile, had escaped his cage via a flaw in the latch that Frank had been meaning to fix for six months. The ferret, driven by some ancient weasel imperative, ascended the dish towel draped over the oven handle, dropped onto the counter, and squeezed into the chili pot.

The neighborhood potluck that evening was chili-less. Frank brought a bag of store-brand tortilla chips and a haunted look in his eyes. Sheila told the story to everyone. Beans spent the night in a cardboard box, wearing a tiny, improvised cone made from a coffee filter, plotting his next move.

The quandary presented itself on a Tuesday. Frank had made his "Famous Five-Alarm Memorial Day Chili" for a neighborhood potluck. It contained three types of beans, ghost peppers, and a secret splash of espresso. It was, by all accounts, a masterpiece. He’d left the pot on the counter to cool, lid slightly ajar.

Then he heard it: a tiny, wet hork . A sound that speaks of regret, of chili-induced reflux, of a creature questioning every life choice that led to that moment.

Frank reached in. Beans bit him. Hard.

And Frank learned the hard lesson: a closed lid is not a locked cage, a ferret’s ambition knows no bounds, and the difference between a good story and a disaster is simply a matter of how many times you get peed on.

It came from the wall.