Page 3 of Catastrophically Yours
By 7:30, she was at her kitchen table with her laptop open to quarterly tax projections, the color-coded wall calendar in her peripheral vision. Today's schedule stretched before her in neat blocks: client calls at nine and eleven, lunch at twelve-thirty, groceries at four. The predictability was soothing in ways she'd stopped trying to explain to people who wouldn't get it.
The intercom's harsh buzz at exactly 8:47 AM shattered all that.
Piper's coffee mug froze halfway to her lips. Nobody visited unannounced. Her mother always called first, Brian texted from college, and her few friends knew better than to show up on weekend mornings without warning. The buzz came again, more insistent.
She walked to the intercom by her front door, pressing the speaker button with her fingertip. "Yes?"
"Hi, um, this is Drew—Drew Callen? Sadie's friend?" The voice crackled through static, nervous energy coming through loud and clear. "I know this is really sudden, but could we maybe talk? Please?"
Piper's mind scrolled through recent conversations, landing on something Sadie had mentioned during their last coffee date three weeks ago. A musician friend with rent problems and writer's block—details that had floated past while Piper explained retirement account options.
"It's eight forty-seven on Saturday morning," she said, sharper than she'd meant.
"I know, I'm sorry. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't—" The voice cracked slightly. "If I had any other options. Sadie said you might be able to help."
That desperation hit Piper right in the chest. She knew that particular brand of controlled panic, had heard it in her own voice during late-night calls to student loan offices. Her finger hovered over the door release while logic battled an unexpected tug of sympathy.
"Third floor," she said, hitting the button before she could think better of it.
Three minutes gave her time to clear her breakfast dishes and check the hallway mirror. Her strawberry blonde bob fell in its usual precise line, weekend uniform of pressed khakis and fitted sweater projecting competent approachability. Whatever Sadie's friend needed, Piper could listen professionally and offer advice before getting back to her quarterly projections.
The knock was soft but urgent. When she opened the door, her first impression was of barely contained energy—a young woman with warm brown skin and dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once, wearing layered vintage band shirts undera flannel jacket that had definitely seen better days. Behind her stood a taller woman with short hair and multiple ear piercings, both flanked by a guitar case and beat-up duffel bag.
But it was the pet carrier that made Piper's stomach drop.
"Hi, I'm Drew," the musician said, shifting the carrier to shake hands. "This is Sadie, and this—" A loud, indignant yowl cut through the air. "This is Pickle."
Piper shook Drew's hand while her brain calculated risks at light speed. Pets meant lease violations. Lease violations meant eviction, lost security deposits, ruined references—her entire carefully built stability threatened by whatever crisis had landed on her doorstep.
"Should we come in?" Sadie asked, already moving past Piper into the apartment.
Drew followed reluctantly, moving carefully as she took in the hardwood floors, pristine furniture, that rainbow wall calendar. "I'm really sorry about this. Sadie said you might help, but I told her?—"
"Drew got evicted yesterday," Sadie interrupted, settling onto the black leather couch uninvited. "Landlord sold the building, new owners want everyone out, and her next place fell through because some previous tenant had an unauthorized iguana or something equally ridiculous."
The words hit like small explosions. Eviction. Housing crisis. The nightmare that kept Piper awake during anxious months, despite her emergency fund and perfect credit score. She watched Drew's face, noting the dark circles, the way she held herself with stubborn dignity despite obvious exhaustion.
"I can pay rent," Drew said quickly. "I have money from gigs, and I'm careful with Pickle. He doesn't scratch furniture or make noise?—"
Another indignant yowl contradicted this immediately.
"How temporary?" Piper heard herself ask, though every practical instinct was screaming warnings about lease violations and disrupted routines.
"A week, maybe two at most," Drew said. "I've got applications in at three places, and one seemed really positive. I just need somewhere to crash while background checks process."
Sadie leaned forward like someone sensing an opening. "You've got that guest room that never gets used. And Drew's incredibly clean—she had to be, living in that shoebox with Pickle."
Piper's eye twitched. The guest room was her office overflow and meditation space, its calm maintained through careful absence of chaos. Disrupting that sanctuary made her palms sweat, but Drew's exhausted face kept pulling her attention. This wasn't some flighty request—this was someone facing genuine crisis with nowhere left to turn.
"My lease specifically prohibits pets," she said, though the words felt hollow.
"Pickle's registered as an emotional support animal," Drew replied. "I have documentation. Technically landlords can't discriminate?—"
"Technically and actually are different things." Piper moved to her kitchen island, needing the barrier while she processed. "If neighbors complain, or there's property damage, or anyone reports a violation?—"
"There won't be complaints," Drew said with quiet conviction. "Pickle's four years old, fully trained, and honestly he sleeps like sixteen hours a day. You'd barely know he was here."
Pickle chose that moment to rattle his carrier with what sounded like frustrated demands for immediate release. Drew shot Piper an apologetic look before kneeling to unlatch the door.
