“Yes, but it’s not a small job.” Ray runs his hand along the wall beside the shower. “We’ll need to strip this bathroom down to the studs. Check the pipes, the ventilation, replace all the affected materials.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see the building manager’s number flashing on the screen.
“I should take this,” I murmur, stepping into the hallway.
The conversation is brief and devastating. When I return to the bathroom, Ray is showing Skyler photos of similar mold cases on his tablet. They both look up at my expression.
“That was Howard from management,” I say, my voice sounding distant. “The unit above us had a pipe leak that went undetected. It’s been slowly seeping down through our walls for months. They’ve found mold in three other apartments besides ours.”
Ray nods, unsurprised. “That tracks with what I’m seeing.”
“Howard says we need to vacate immediately.” The words feel surreal as they leave my mouth. “The whole building’s being evacuated for remediation. At least two months.”
“Two months?” Skyler’s composure finally cracks. “Where are we supposed to go for two months?”
Panic rises in my chest, a tide I can’t control. Our wedding is in four months. All our carefully laid plans, our budget stretched to its limit already. Where will we stay? How much will this cost? What about all our things?
As if reading my mind, Ray clears his throat. “You’ll want to be careful about what you take with you. Soft goods—clothes, bedding, upholstered furniture—can trap spores. Hard surfacescan be wiped down with vinegar or hydrogen peroxide, but anything porous might need professional cleaning.”
“Our clothes? Our bed?” My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. “Are you saying everything’s contaminated?”
“Not everything,” Ray says gently. “Items in closed closets away from the bathroom are probably fine. But anything in open areas, especially fabric items . . .” He trails off with an apologetic shrug.
Skyler’s phone chimes with a text. “Howard’s sending over official notice. We need to be out by tomorrow evening the latest.”
Tomorrow. The word echoes in my head like a death knell.
“I’ll put together an estimate and a remediation plan for the management office,” Ray says, tucking his tablet into his bag. “Since the leak originated in the main line, the building’s insurance will cover the professional cleaning and structural repairs. You should contact your renter’s insurance agent immediately, though—they’ll be the ones to handle relocation costs and any damage to your personal property.”
“I’ll call our renter’s insurance right now,” Skyler says while I’m still in a daze. He disappears for a few minutes, but then returns with a grim frown. “Our insurance lapsed. I-I thought it had been on autopay, but apparently it wasn’t. We’ve been uninsured this entire time.”
Ray winces. “In that case, the complex only owes you a prorated refund on your rent for the days the unit is unlivable. They aren’t legally required to pay for your hotel or any new furnishings.”
I nod automatically, processing nothing. All I can think about is that we have no home. Not for two months. Not with a wedding approaching. Not with my limited savings and Skyler’s father already questioning our financial readiness for marriage.
Ray continues talking about containment protocols and air quality tests, but his words wash over me in a meaningless stream. I feel Skyler’s hand find mine again, anchoring me to the present.
“We’ll figure this out,” he whispers against my hair. “I promise.”
But as I stare at the black invader spreading across our bathroom ceiling, all I can think is, This is just the beginning of our troubles.
I stare at my phone screen, scrolling through nearby Airbnb listings with increasingly horrified eyes. Everything remotely affordable is booked solid for the next month—tourist season in Chicago is no joke. The few available places cost more per night than our monthly rent. I glance at Skyler, who’s making calls to friends from work, his voice low and controlled, despite the creeping desperation I can see in the tight set of his shoulders.
Ray left an hour ago with promises to expedite our case. Howard sent a formal evacuation notice, all legalese and liability waivers, requiring our signature by morning. The reality is setting in like concrete, heavy and permanent.
We have no home.
Skyler hangs up, shaking his head. “Jason’s spare room is being used by his mother-in-law. Derek’s renovating. Mark’s out of town and doesn’t want to give out his key.”
I nod, unsurprised. It’s amazing how quickly a robust social network dissolves when you need actual shelter.
“I’ll try my stepmom,” I say, already dialing. If anyone would take us in without hesitation, it’s Maria. Before she moved in with my dad, she lived in a bookstore apartment. As she ownsit, she never bothered to sell it, and instead my parents stay there when they visit her bookstore. The apartment upstairs isn’t huge, but it has a pull-out couch and proximity to our jobs. Plus, she makes the best stress-reducing tea on the planet, which I could desperately use right now. I would stay with her and my dad in their current house, but it’s two hours away. The commute would be too great for our jobs.
The phone rings three times before Maria’s warm voice answers. “Harley! I was just thinking about you. How did the Johnson case go?”
“Good, actually.” I curl into the corner of our sofa, seeking comfort in its familiar embrace. “But we have a situation.”
I explain the mold, the evacuation, and our desperate need for temporary housing. Maria listens without interrupting, making sympathetic noises in all the right places.
