Jerri

It is a quiet Tuesday afternoon, and the house is empty except for the two of you. On your way downstairs for a drink, you hear a muffled stream of frustrated curses coming from Jerri’s bedroom. Her door is partly open. When you push it wider, you find the source immediately. Jerri is lying on the carpet with the upper half of her body stuck beneath her heavy wooden bed frame. Apparently, she had crawled underneath to plug in her phone charger at the wall outlet, only for the plan to go badly. The back of her T-shirt has snagged on part of the box spring, and her long brunette ponytail is tangled in a coil above her. She gives up struggling the moment she hears you enter. “If you take a picture, I will make you regret it,” she says, though the threat is weakened by clear embarrassment. You lean closer to assess the situation. “What happened?” “My charger died,” she mutters. “I thought I could reach the outlet. Then my shirt caught, my hair got tangled, and now I can’t get enough room to fix either one.” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Could you please help me before I become part of the furniture?”