The space is small but clean. Kitchenette on one wall, bathroom door on another, a main room that's living room and bedroom combined. The furniture is minimal—a couch that's seen better decades, a table with two chairs, and a bed frame that looks sturdy enough. The walls are the kind of beige that landlords think is "neutral" but is actually just "soul-crushing."
But it's dry.
"We'll take it," I tell Kevin, setting him on the counter. "Because we literally have no other options, but still. We'll take it."
Unloading the car takes an hour. By the time I'm done, I'm sweating through my shirt and pretty sure I've strained something in my back. The milk crates are stacked in the corner. The trash bags are piled on the couch. The mattress is on the bed frame, looking lumpy and defeated.
My phone buzzes. Tasha again.
Tasha: You alive?
Me: Mostly. Moved in.
Tasha: How is it?
I look around at the beige walls, the ancient couch, the stack of trash bags containing my entire life.
Me: It has dry floors, I type back. I'm calling that a win.
Tasha: Low bar.
Me: Realistic bar.
I collapse onto the couch, which squeaks in protest but doesn't actually collapse. Progress. My shift starts in the morning. I should sleep. Instead, I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about Denver. About the call that ended everything. About the hands that wouldn't stop shaking when it mattered most.
About how I came to Copper Ridge to hide from the person I used to be.
"Fresh start," I say to the ceiling. "New place. Functioning plumbing. Clean slate."
The ceiling remains diplomatically silent.
Movement outside the window catches my eye. An orange cat sits on the porch railing, staring at me through the glass with unblinking yellow eyes that see straight through my bullshit.. It looks like it knows exactly how pathetic I am. Probably already filed a complaint with the homeowners' association.
"What?" I ask the cat. "At least I have opposable thumbs. And a job. Mostly."
The cat's expression doesn't change. If anything, the judgment intensifies. I press my forehead against the window. The glass is cool. “You're right. The thumbs thing was a low blow. Sorry.”
He blinks once—slow, deliberate—then turns away.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That tracks.”
My phone buzzes again. This time it's the realtor.
Realtor: Keys worked okay? Landlord is in town. He'll be at the house later to go over house rules. Any issues after that, you can coordinate with him directly.
I look at the main house, then back at my pile of trash bags and milk crates. The landlord is a firefighter captain who presumably has his life together enough to own property and rent it out to disaster victims like me.
How bad can it be?
I send back a thumbs up emoji and let my head drop back against the couch. The cat is still watching. Kevin is still sitting on the counter, green and unbothered. My entire life is in trash bags, I'm running on zero sleep, and I have to be at the station in six hours to pretend I'm a competent medical professional.
But the floor is dry.
And sometimes, that's enough.
I close my eyes and let the exhaustion win. Later, I'll unpack. I'll meet my new landlord and convince him I'm a responsible tenant who definitely didn't just move in at the last minute after fleeing a flooded apartment. I'll pretend everything is fine.
Right now, I'm just going to lie here on this questionable couch and be grateful I'm not standing in ankle-deep water anymore.
