Tasha: Tonight? It's 3 PM.
Me: Technically it's already tonight. I'm just early.
The water is now deep enough that the slipper has fully surrendered. I fish it out and drop it in the trash can, hopping toward my bedroom on one booted foot. The squelching sound my boot makes is obscene. Water drips down my leg. My ankle throbs from the awkward angle. The bedroom threshold—that stupid raised piece I've stubbed my toe on approximately fifty times—is tonight's hero. The carpet inside is blessedly dry..
I start grabbing clothes and shoving them into trash bags because every box I own is currently floating in the living room. Underwear, sports bras, the collection of oversized t-shirts I sleep in—all of it goes into bags with the efficiency of someone who has exactly zero attachment to material possessions anymore.
Six months ago, I had an apartment in Denver. Hardwood floors, mountain views, a career trajectory that actually went somewhere. Six months ago, my hands didn't shake when I reached for an IV bag.
Now I'm the paramedic who moved to a town so small the grocery store uses handwritten signs. Who took a job where the biggest emergency is Mrs. Henderson's cable going out during Wheel of Fortune. Who can't make it through a trauma call without shaking so badly my partner has to take over.
And right now? I'm standing in a flooded apartment at 3 PM, packing my life into trash bags while wearing one duck-covered rain boot.
"Living the dream," I mutter, tossing my entire sock drawer into a bag without bothering to sort. "Absolutely crushing it."
My hands steady when I shove clothes into a trash bag. Packing is easier than remembering. The physical work helps—grab, stuff, tie. Repeat. Don't think about the four-year-old who coded. Don't think about how my hands wouldn't stop shaking when it mattered.
My phone buzzes again.
Unknown number: This is Jerry Kowalski from Mountain View Property Management. Got your messages. Pipe burst is building-wide. Whole plumbing system needs replacement. Won't be habitable for at least six weeks.
I stare at the message. Six weeks. Not two days, not "we'll have it fixed by tonight." Six weeks of my apartment being a very expensive wading pool.
I type back:
Me: So I'm evicted?
Jerry: Temporarily displaced. Rent will be prorated.
Me: That's not actually helpful right now.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally:
Jerry: Sorry. Best I can do.
Fantastic. I add "housing crisis" to tonight's list of achievements, right below "matching footwear is for quitters" and "professional disaster victim."
By the time the sun goes down, I've loaded everything I could salvage into my ancient Honda Civic. The back seat is a Tetris puzzle of trash bags and milk crates. The trunk holds my mattress, which I had to fold into a shape that definitely violates its warranty. The passenger seat cradles Kevin the fern, who's looking surprisingly perky considering his recent near-death experience.
Sweat plasters my shirt to my back. My arms shake from hauling the mattress. The sun's dropping below the mountains, painting everything orange and pink, and I'm standing in a parking lot next to my entire life crammed into a fifteen-year-old Honda. “Could be worse,” I tell Kevin. “Could be raining.” Kevin doesn't comment, but I swear his fronds droop judgmentally.
"We're going to be fine," I keep talking to Kevin. "The new place has a yard. You'll love it."
Kevin offers no comment.
The realtor's email said the landlord would leave the keys in the lockbox. The landlord who, according to the listing, is "a firefighter captain relocating to Copper Ridge for work." Which seemed promising—firefighters are generally responsible humans who pay their bills and don't let their rental properties flood.
The address leads me to a neighborhood I've driven through but never really noticed. Tree-lined streets, houses with actual yards, the kind of place where people probably know their neighbors' names and bring each other casseroles. It's aggressively charming in a way that makes my Denver apartment—former Denver apartment—look like a concrete shoebox.
The street smells like cut grass and someone's barbecue. Sprinklers tick-tick-tick across perfect lawns. A couple walks past with a golden retriever, waving like they know me. They don't, but that's apparently how things work here. My stomach knots. I don't do neighborhoods like this. I do anonymous apartment complexes where nobody knows if you're home or dead for a week.
The main house is a Craftsman-style beauty with a porch swing and window boxes that someone has actually planted flowers in. My chest tightens looking at it. This is the kind of house families live in. The kind with matching dish towels and photo albums and people who stay. Not the kind of place for someone who keeps her life in trash bags.
The in-law suite sits off to the side. It's small—basically a studio with delusions of grandeur—but it has windows and a door that doesn't stick and what appears to be functional plumbing.
"The bar is so low it's underground," I inform Kevin as I punch the code into the lockbox. "But we're clearing it."
The key turns smoothly. The door swings open without squealing. The light switch actually turns on overhead lights instead of sparking ominously. I'm three for three on basic functionality, which feels like winning the lottery.
