Page 1 of Catastrophically Yours
ONE
EMERGENCY HOUSING
The eviction notice crinkled between Drew's fingers as she sat cross-legged on the bare hardwood floor, surrounded by the cardboard archaeology of her collapsed life. Three notices, actually—each one progressively more urgent than the last, the final one stamped with yesterday's date and the unforgiving phrase: "24 HOURS TO VACATE." The words blurred as she stared at them, her vision wavering between disbelief and the bone-deep exhaustion that came from fighting a losing battle for months.
Pickle weaved between the boxes with feline anxiety, his substantial orange and white bulk moving restlessly through the maze of her remaining possessions. Fifteen pounds of dramatic flair, wrapped in tabby fur and equipped with the most judgmental green eyes Drew had ever encountered. His plaintive meow echoed in the empty space, bouncing off walls stripped of everything that had made this place home—the vintage concert posters, the string lights that had cast everything in warm amber, the overflowing bookshelves that had somehow made the cramped studio feel infinite.
"I know, buddy," Drew murmured, reaching out to scratch behind his ears as he butted his massive head against her knee. "This sucks for both of us."
The apartment felt like a skeleton now, all harsh angles and hollow acoustics. Even her voice sounded different here—smaller, somehow. The afternoon light slanting through windows that would belong to someone else by tomorrow carved sharp rectangles across the floor, illuminating dust motes and the ghost marks where furniture used to live.
Drew's phone buzzed against the hardwood where she'd dropped it after the last failed call. She'd been working through a crumpled piece of paper covered in Sadie's careful handwriting—emergency housing numbers, each one crossed out as it led to the same dead end. Two-week waiting lists. Income requirements she couldn't meet. Deposit demands that might as well have been asking for the moon.
The automated voice from the last shelter still rang in her ears: "Thank you for calling Safe Haven Housing. Due to high demand, our current wait time for available beds is fourteen to twenty-one business days. Please note that we do not accommodate pets or emotional support animals."
Pickle chose that moment to leap onto her lap, his considerable weight settling across her crossed legs with the confidence of a cat who had never doubted his welcome anywhere. His purr rumbled against her chest as he kneaded the soft fabric of her ratty cardigan—the gray one with holes in the elbows that she'd worn through three apartment moves and countless late-night coffee shop gigs.
"What am I supposed to do?" she whispered into his fur, breathing in the familiar scent of whatever expensive organic food she probably shouldn't have been buying while behind on rent. "They want references I don't have, deposits I can't afford, and none of them will take you anyway."
The irony wasn't lost on her. Pickle was supposed to be helping with her anxiety, not causing it. The paperwork from her therapist—carefully folded in the front pocket of her guitar case—proclaimed him an emotional support animal, essential for her mental health and well-being. But emotional support didn't pay rent, and it certainly didn't convince landlords to overlook three months of missed payments.
Drew fumbled for her phone, scrolling through contacts until she found Sadie's name. Her best friend picked up on the second ring, because Sadie always picked up on the second ring. Consistency was one of her superpowers, along with brutal honesty and an uncanny ability to find decent coffee in any neighborhood.
"Please tell me you have good news," Sadie's voice crackled through the speaker, warm with hope and caffeine.
"I've tried everything." Drew's voice came out smaller than intended. "Shelters don't take pets, motels want deposits I don't have, and my credit is shot. Like, crater-where-my-credit-used-to-be shot."
Silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of options that didn't exist.
"What about your ex? That guy with the?—"
"Chris is crashing on someone's couch in Queens, and even if he weren't..." Drew trailed off, watching Pickle's ears flick toward some sound she couldn't hear. "I can't go backwards. You know that."
A pause. Then: "There might be someone."
Something in Sadie's tone made Drew sit up straighter, disturbing Pickle's comfortable sprawl. "Someone?"
"My accountant. Piper. She's got this amazing apartment in a converted Victorian, and she mentioned once that her roommate moved out last month."
Drew pressed her free hand against the floor, feeling the grain of wood that had witnessed too many late nights and early morning scrambles for rent money. "And you think she'd let a complete stranger crash on her couch? With a cat?"
"Well." Sadie's hesitation stretched like taffy. "She doesn't exactly know about Pickle yet."
"Sadie—"
"Hear me out. She's kind of intense about organization and structure and all that, but she's good people. Really good. Just... particular."
Drew began to pace, or tried to, navigating the obstacle course of boxes that contained the tangible remnants of her independence. "Particular how?"
"She color-codes her grocery lists. Her spice rack is alphabetized. She's never been late to anything in her life, including appointments that don't exist yet because she schedules them three months in advance."
"You're describing my personal nightmare."
"But she has her own apartment, Drew. A really nice one. With a guest room that's just sitting there empty because she's too picky to find another roommate through normal channels."
Drew paused by the window, looking down at the street where normal people lived normal lives with normal problems that could be solved with normal solutions. A woman walked by pushing a stroller, chatting animatedly on her phone. A delivery truck idled by the curb. Life continuing its steady rhythm while Drew's world came apart in carefully measured increments.
"What aren't you telling me about this person?"
