Becca gives up, pitching the filament-thin allen wrench across the room, where it hits a blocky imitation wood table with a wan and entirely unsatisfying clink.
Maybe some-assembly-required Swedish furniture wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t do reverse delivery. If you need to return something, you’ll have to bring it back to the store.”
“I…can’t..DRIVE,” Becca hisses into the speaker, before pitching the phone after the allen wrench. Well, she could probably quell her driving terror with enough wine, but that would be defeating the purpose, wouldn’t it?