I could hear Terri making notes. She was probably writing “difficult but willing” next to my name, which was, now that I thought about it, a fair summary of my entire personality.
“I understand, Mr. Loupier. We’ll match you with someone compatible. The displaced tenant would have use of the spare bedroom—”
“That’s the foster room.”
Another pause. “The spare bedroom that is currently a foster room.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll make sure they’re aware.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
General Tso, from the refrigerator, made a soundthat was either a yawn or a judgment—these were basically indistinguishable.
“How long?” I asked.
“Six to eight weeks, potentially longer, depending on the mold assessment.”
“Potentially longer?”
“I’ll be transparent with you, Mr. Loupier. These things tend to take longer than the initial estimate. I’d plan for three months or more.”
Three months.
Ninety days of a stranger in my space, disturbing my routine, shattering the quiet I’d spent two years building from the wreckage of a life that used to be louder.
I looked at Hiro. He looked back at me with the guileless, trusting face of a dog who didn’t know his surgery was going to cost $4,200 but who trusted, completely and without reservation, that I would take care of him.
“Fine,” I said.
“Wonderful. I’ll be in touch once—”
“Terri.”
“Yes?”
“Quiet hours start at ten.”
“Noted, Mr. Loupier.”
“And the foster animals stay on their schedule. Whoever moves in works around the animals, notthe other way around.”
“Of course.”
“And my kitchen is—” I stopped myself and drew a breath. I was making a list of demands like a man negotiating a hostage situation, and the hostage was my own peace of mind. “Just, please find someone tolerable.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She hung up.
I set my phone on the counter and sat there for a long moment, listening to the apartment.
Potato was snoring.
The kittens were scratching at the bathroom door.
Hiro’s tail thumped softly against the floor.
