Kirk Morris was tired.

  He had just worked a ten-hour shift and the only thing he wanted was to go home and pass out. Sweet oblivion was all he craved as he pulled into his driveway and threw his car into park.

  Kirk's home was small, just a cottage really, that he had inherited from his grandmother after she died. It was an old house with a lot of problems that sat like a weight made of guilt on his back. But, he had to work overtime most days just to keep up with the taxes, the emergency repair bills on the house, and his own medical expenses. His life had become a game of treading water and he was getting tired.

  Fumbling with his keyring in the dark, Kirk finally found his house key and jammed it into the deadbolt. The door unlocked with a loud clunk and he turned the knob with a tired sigh.

  The house was dark inside, humming quietly in a familiar way that put him at ease. Finally, he was home and could *rest*.

  Unfortunately, that was not the case. Because as soon as he swung the front door shut behind him, Kirk Morris felt something hard and metal press into the small of his back.

  "Kirk Morris," a masculine voice said just behind his ear. "Welcome home."

  Kirk froze like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi. He felt his armpits and upper lip prickle with sweat and his eyes ached as they stared sightless into the darkness of his own home.

  "What-" he croaked, then ran out of words. This couldn't be happening to him. He wasn't anybody. His house wasn't anything to look at. He didn't have any money or valuables. How could this be happening to him?

  "Mister Morris," the smooth deep voice behind him said. "I've noticed that there's a puddle developing under your furnace. When was the last time you had your furnace serviced?"

  "What?" Kirk asked in confusion. His breath was coming fast, panic building in his throat. Did his burglar just ask him about his furnace?

  "A puddle forming beneath your furnace could be indicative of an issue with the secondary heat exchanger. Have you had the CO levels in your furnace vent tested recently?" the voice asked, sounding mild and professional despite the dark of the entryway and the piece of metal still jabbed into Kirk's lower back.

  "No?" Kirk said slowly. "I don't understand. Are you robbing me?" he asked incredulously.

  The voice behind him laughed, a deep guffaw that sounded incredibly loud in the silence of the house. The metal at his back jabbed into him hard just above his kidney.

  "Oh my stars, no!" the voice laughed. "I'm just a good Samaritan who wants to help. Here, I'll show you."

  The sound of duct tape being pulled was shockingly loud. Kirk gasped and tried to lunge away, risking a shot from what he assumed was a gun pressed to the small of his back. There was a scuffle. The man behind him was taller and stronger than Kirk, something that became quickly apparent as Kirk struggled to escape and run for the back door. Mr. Morris didn't even get out of the entryway before he was easily overpowered by his attacker.

  He ended up sitting and trembling on the little square of tile by the front door with his hands duct taped behind him.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "Please," he quavered. "I don't have a lot of money. But, what I do have is in a lockbox in my sock drawer. The key is in-"

  "Mr. Morris," the voice said with a put upon sigh. "You really need to work on your listening skills. Now, I am not here to rob you. I just want to make sure you understand the importance of proper home maintenance."

  The lights clicked on and Kirk Morris blinked in the sudden wash of bright white light from the overheads. When his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he saw a tall powerfully built man standing in front of him. He was wearing a red and black flannel button down shirt with clean blue jeans, a leather tool belt stuffed with a variety of tools, and sensible brown leather boots. He was handsome in a forgettable way, with a friendly face, clean cut hair and chin, and laugh lines around his mouth.

  He was also wearing thick leather gloves, which sent a chill of fear through Kirk. Gloves meant no fingerprints, which meant this guy might know what he was doing.

  "Let's go upstairs and see your furnace," the man said in a cheery voice.

  He then tucked one strong hand under Kirk's armpit and hauled him to his feet. Stumbling, Kirk was pulled to the nearby attic steps and upstairs.

  The attic of his small cottage was finished and acted as his bedroom. The walls tilted in toward the peak of the roof halfway up the wall and there were two small crawlspace doors tucked into the space between his unmade bed and the wall. The door to the furnace was already open.

  The man pulled Kirk to sit down beside him. "I've already done the repair work, but I wanted to make sure you knew what was done, in case the next repair man asks you," he explained.

  "Repair man?" Kirk asked faintly. Literally, he felt a little faint.

  "The puddle was likely caused by acid build up in your secondary heat exchanger," the man explained. "You see, acid builds up inside the heat exchanger and over time it eats through the protective coating inside and rusts through the walls, eventually causing pinholes. That was likely what was causing the puddle, waste water escaping through pinholes in the secondary heat exchanger."

  The handsome repair man turned toward Kirk. Kirk gamely looked into his friendly face and at the charming crows feet at the corners of his eyes and tried to ignore how the room felt like it was spinning.

  "I tested the CO levels in the exhaust pipe. Do you know what I found?" he asked in a very serious tone.

  "No. What did you find?" Kirk asked.

  "The CO levels were at 300 ppm. That's entirely too high!"

  "Oh," Kirk said stupidly. He was starting to wonder if this was some kind of dream. Maybe there had been an intruder, but he had shot Kirk dead the second he stepped inside and now his mind was giving him a fever dream like scenario to calm his panicking mind as he slipped slowly into death.

  "The manufacturers will tell you that 400 ppm is the maximum allowable CO in the vent, but of course they would. National fuel gas codes even suggest that 300 ppm is acceptable, but they're as good as in the pockets of big industry. No, anything above 100 ppm is enough to raise alarm bells in my book," the man said firmly with a solemn nod of his head.

  "Do you know the risks of Carbon Monoxide poisoning, Mister Morris?" his kidnapper asked.

  "No, I don't," Kirk Morris said slowly, pulling at his wrists but only managing to rip out some of his arm hair in the process.

  "Headache, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, chest pain, confusion," the man counted off each symptom on his finger. "It can even cause unconsciousness and death! It's called the silent killer, Mister Morris!" he slapped his gloved hands together, his thick and well tended eyebrows communicating how emotional this subject made him. "You have to be very careful where carbon monoxide is concerned. That's why regular furnace maintenance is so important."

  "I see," Kirk nodded in a way he hoped was convincing.

  "That's why I replaced your secondary heat exchanger and installed a carbon monoxide detector here and in the first floor hallway," the man explained, pointing to a small beige device that was plugged into a nearby outlet that Kirk had not noticed before. "You shouldn't have anything to worry about for the time being, but just make sure you schedule regular maintenance on your furnace from now on."

  "Yes," Kirk said slowly. "I will do that." He squinted at the man, assessing. Was that the right answer?

  The man looked back at him for a long pregnant moment. For a while they both stared at each other, neither moving, neither breathing. Kirk's hands were sweating and his shoulders were aching from having his hands tied behind his back for so long.

  "Great!" the man said suddenly, his smile so big that both crow's feet and laugh lines were on full display. He even had dimples for Christ's sake. "I'll let you enjoy the rest of your night then, Mr. Morris! I'll see myself out."

  With that, the masked man stood up, stepped around Kirk Morris where he was still sitting on the floor of his bedroom, and clomped down the stairs in his heavy work boots. Kirk sat on the carpet and listened to the front door open and close behind his burglar.

  Then, he heard nothing else. He looked into the crawlspace that held his furnace. The man had taped a piece of paper to the side of the furnace. It was a log sheet with areas to write the dates of service along with who had checked the furnace. The very top row had been filled out in pencil, the writing clear and concise.

  He had signed the log sheet with the initials DIY.