Page 1 of Catastrophically Yours

ONE

EMERGENCY HOUSING

Pickle weaved between the boxes with feline anxiety, his substantial orange and white bulk moving restlessly through the maze of her remaining possessions.

Fifteen pounds of dramatic flair, wrapped in tabby fur and equipped with the most judgmental green eyes Drew had ever encountered.

His plaintive meow echoed in the empty space, bouncing off walls stripped of everything that had made this place home—the vintage concert posters, the string lights that had cast everything in warm amber, the overflowing bookshelves that had somehow made the cramped studio feel infinite.

"I know, buddy," Drew murmured, reaching out to scratch behind his ears as he butted his massive head against her knee. "This sucks for both of us."

The apartment felt like a skeleton now, all harsh angles and hollow acoustics.

Even her voice sounded different here—smaller, somehow.

The afternoon light slanting through windows that would belong to someone else by tomorrow carved sharp rectangles across the floor, illuminating dust motes and the ghost marks where furniture used to live.

Drew's phone buzzed against the hardwood where she'd dropped it after the last failed call.

She'd been working through a crumpled piece of paper covered in Sadie's careful handwriting—emergency housing numbers, each one crossed out as it led to the same dead end.

Two-week waiting lists. Income requirements she couldn't meet.

Deposit demands that might as well have been asking for the moon.

The automated voice from the last shelter still rang in her ears: "Thank you for calling Safe Haven Housing. Due to high demand, our current wait time for available beds is fourteen to twenty-one business days. Please note that we do not accommodate pets or emotional support animals."

Pickle chose that moment to leap onto her lap, his considerable weight settling across her crossed legs with the confidence of a cat who had never doubted his welcome anywhere.

His purr rumbled against her chest as he kneaded the soft fabric of her ratty cardigan—the gray one with holes in the elbows that she'd worn through three apartment moves and countless late-night coffee shop gigs.

"What am I supposed to do?" she whispered into his fur, breathing in the familiar scent of whatever expensive organic food she probably shouldn't have been buying while behind on rent. "They want references I don't have, deposits I can't afford, and none of them will take you anyway."

The irony wasn't lost on her. Pickle was supposed to be helping with her anxiety, not causing it.

The paperwork from her therapist—carefully folded in the front pocket of her guitar case—proclaimed him an emotional support animal, essential for her mental health and well-being.

But emotional support didn't pay rent, and it certainly didn't convince landlords to overlook three months of missed payments.

Drew fumbled for her phone, scrolling through contacts until she found Sadie's name.

Her best friend picked up on the second ring, because Sadie always picked up on the second ring.

Consistency was one of her superpowers, along with brutal honesty and an uncanny ability to find decent coffee in any neighborhood.

"Please tell me you have good news," Sadie's voice crackled through the speaker, warm with hope and caffeine.

"I've tried everything." Drew's voice came out smaller than intended. "Shelters don't take pets, motels want deposits I don't have, and my credit is shot. Like, crater-where-my-credit-used-to-be shot."

Silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of options that didn't exist.

"What about your ex? That guy with the?—"

"Chris is crashing on someone's couch in Queens, and even if he weren't..." Drew trailed off, watching Pickle's ears flick toward some sound she couldn't hear. "I can't go backwards. You know that."

A pause. Then: "There might be someone."

Something in Sadie's tone made Drew sit up straighter, disturbing Pickle's comfortable sprawl. "Someone?"

"My accountant. Piper. She's got this amazing apartment in a converted Victorian, and she mentioned once that her roommate moved out last month."

Drew pressed her free hand against the floor, feeling the grain of wood that had witnessed too many late nights and early morning scrambles for rent money. "And you think she'd let a complete stranger crash on her couch? With a cat?"

"Well." Sadie's hesitation stretched like taffy. "She doesn't exactly know about Pickle yet."

"Sadie—"

"Hear me out. She's kind of intense about organization and structure and all that, but she's good people. Really good. Just... particular."

Drew began to pace, or tried to, navigating the obstacle course of boxes that contained the tangible remnants of her independence. "Particular how?"

"She color-codes her grocery lists. Her spice rack is alphabetized. She's never been late to anything in her life, including appointments that don't exist yet because she schedules them three months in advance."

"You're describing my personal nightmare."

"But she has her own apartment, Drew. A really nice one. With a guest room that's just sitting there empty because she's too picky to find another roommate through normal channels."

Drew paused by the window, looking down at the street where normal people lived normal lives with normal problems that could be solved with normal solutions.

A woman walked by pushing a stroller, chatting animatedly on her phone.

A delivery truck idled by the curb. Life continuing its steady rhythm while Drew's world came apart in carefully measured increments.

"What aren't you telling me about this person?"

"She's not exactly the spontaneous type who takes in strays.

" Sadie's voice carried the careful tone of someone trying to sugar-coat medicine.

"She has systems. Routines. A very specific way of doing things.

But she's also incredibly reliable, and once she commits to something, she follows through. "

"Systems," Drew repeated flatly.

"Like, she runs the same route every morning at exactly six-thirty. She meal preps on Sundays. Her books are organized by genre, then chronologically by publication date within each genre."

Drew slumped against the window frame, watching her reflection overlap with the street scene below. "She's going to take one look at me and my chaos cat and slam the door in our faces."

"Maybe. Or maybe she'll surprise you. People usually do, when they get the chance."

The afternoon light was fading now, painting everything in soft grays and amber. Drew had always loved this time of day—the golden hour when anything seemed possible. When the harsh edges of reality softened into something manageable. But today, it just felt like time running out.

Pickle appeared at her feet, wrapping his considerable bulk around her ankles and purring like a small engine. His timing was impeccable, as always. Just when the weight of everything threatened to crush her, he showed up with his ridiculous confidence and unwavering affection.

"I'll take rigid and organized over sleeping in my car," Drew said finally.

"I'll text you her address. But Drew?" Sadie's voice carried a note of warning. "Don't lead with the cat thing. Maybe it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. She's softer than she seems, but first impressions matter with her."

After hanging up, Drew stood in the growing dusk of her former home, phone in hand, staring at the address Sadie had sent.

The apartment building looked sleek and modern in the Google Street View image—all clean lines and architectural confidence.

The kind of place where people had their lives together, where late rent notices were an abstract concept and security deposits weren't measured in blood sacrifice.

She began stuffing her possessions into the battered duffel bag that had seen her through countless moves, each one smaller than the last. Her clothes went in first—vintage band tees, flannel shirts, the Doc Martens that had walked thousands of miles of city sidewalks.

Then the important things: her grandmother's recipe box, inherited and filled with handwritten cards in careful cursive.

The photograph of her parents from before everything got complicated.

Her laptop, held together with duct tape and determination.

Luna went into her hard case, the worn Taylor acoustic guitar that had been her constant companion since college.

Sometimes Drew felt like her entire identity lived in the space between those strings—every song she'd written, every late night in coffee shops where she'd played for tips and the chance that someone might actually listen.

Her hands shook slightly as she packed, the reality of what she was doing settling into her bones like winter cold.

Moving in with a complete stranger. Someone who probably had never missed a rent payment in her life, never laid awake calculating which bills could be delayed another week, never chosen between groceries and guitar strings.

Pickle's supplies went into a separate bag—the good food that cost more per pound than Drew's own meals, toys that had been systematically destroyed and replaced, the catnip mouse that had somehow survived two years of aggressive snuggling.

Everything that kept him healthy and happy and officially qualified as an emotional support animal.

The apartment looked even more hollow with her things gone.

Drew walked through each room one last time, her footsteps echoing against bare walls.

The kitchen where she'd learned to make pasta seventeen different ways because pasta was cheap and filling.

The corner where her reading chair used to sit, creating a pocket of warmth in the endless city winter.

The spot by the window where Pickle liked to judge pedestrians and plot their downfall.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered to the empty air.

The keys felt heavier than they should as she locked the door for the last time, sliding them under the superintendent's door downstairs along with a note she didn't have the heart to reread.

Three years of her life reduced to a forwarding address she didn't have yet and the hope that someone she'd never met might have enough compassion to help a stranger and her judgmental cat.

The subway platform buzzed with evening commuters heading home to lives that made sense, carrying briefcases and confident expressions and the comfortable weight of knowing where they'd sleep tonight.

Drew clutched Pickle's carrier as the train rattled toward an unfamiliar neighborhood, watching her reflection fragment in the dark windows.

"You better be on your best behavior," she murmured to the carrier, where Pickle had gone ominously quiet. "No knocking things over. No attitude. No judging her organizational systems or whatever weird way organized people live."

A soft meow drifted from the carrier—whether agreement or protest, she couldn't tell.

Twenty minutes later, Drew stood on the sidewalk outside a building that looked even more intimidating in person.

Clean brick facade, well-maintained entryway, the kind of security system that probably required actual identification rather than confident walking.

The kind of place where people had jobs with titles like "senior analyst" and "portfolio manager" instead of "musician, sort of, sometimes. "

She checked the address twice, then checked it again. Apartment 4B. Drew pressed the buzzer and waited, watching her breath fog in the cooling air while Pickle shifted restlessly in his carrier.

This stranger—this Piper person with her color-coded lists and alphabetized existence—represented her last hope.

The final number on a list that had dwindled to nothing.

Drew closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the city around her: distant traffic, someone cooking dinner with too much garlic, a dog barking three floors up.

The intercom crackled to life, and a voice emerged—crisp, professional, with the measured cadence of someone who thought before speaking.

"Can I help you?"

Drew's mouth went dry. She looked down at Pickle's carrier, then up at the building that might become home, and took a breath that tasted like possibility and desperation in equal measure.

"Hi. I'm Drew. Sadie's friend? I know this is going to sound crazy, but I was hoping we could talk."