Page 2 of Catastrophically Yours

TWO

CONTROLLED VARIABLES

Piper's coffee mug froze halfway to her lips. Nobody visited unannounced. Her mother always called first, Brian texted from college, and her few friends knew better than to show up on weekend mornings without warning. The buzz came again, more insistent.

She walked to the intercom by her front door, pressing the speaker button with her fingertip. "Yes?"

"Hi, um, this is Drew—Drew Callen? Sadie's friend?" The voice crackled through static, nervous energy coming through loud and clear. "I know this is really sudden, but could we maybe talk? Please?"

Piper's mind scrolled through recent conversations, landing on something Sadie had mentioned during their last coffee date three weeks ago. A musician friend with rent problems and writer's block—details that had floated past while Piper explained retirement account options.

"It's eight forty-seven on Saturday morning," she said, sharper than she'd meant.

"I know, I'm sorry. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't—" The voice cracked slightly. "If I had any other options. Sadie said you might be able to help."

That desperation hit Piper right in the chest. She knew that particular brand of controlled panic, had heard it in her own voice during late-night calls to student loan offices. Her finger hovered over the door release while logic battled an unexpected tug of sympathy.

"Third floor," she said, hitting the button before she could think better of it.

Three minutes gave her time to clear her breakfast dishes and check the hallway mirror.

Her strawberry blonde bob fell in its usual precise line, weekend uniform of pressed khakis and fitted sweater projecting competent approachability.

Whatever Sadie's friend needed, Piper could listen professionally and offer advice before getting back to her quarterly projections.

The knock was soft but urgent. When she opened the door, her first impression was of barely contained energy—a young woman with warm brown skin and dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once, wearing layered vintage band shirts under a flannel jacket that had definitely seen better days.

Behind her stood a taller woman with short hair and multiple ear piercings, both flanked by a guitar case and beat-up duffel bag.

But it was the pet carrier that made Piper's stomach drop.

"Hi, I'm Drew," the musician said, shifting the carrier to shake hands. "This is Sadie, and this—" A loud, indignant yowl cut through the air. "This is Pickle."

Piper shook Drew's hand while her brain calculated risks at light speed. Pets meant lease violations. Lease violations meant eviction, lost security deposits, ruined references—her entire carefully built stability threatened by whatever crisis had landed on her doorstep.

"Should we come in?" Sadie asked, already moving past Piper into the apartment.

Drew followed reluctantly, moving carefully as she took in the hardwood floors, pristine furniture, that rainbow wall calendar. "I'm really sorry about this. Sadie said you might help, but I told her?—"

"Drew got evicted yesterday," Sadie interrupted, settling onto the black leather couch uninvited. "Landlord sold the building, new owners want everyone out, and her next place fell through because some previous tenant had an unauthorized iguana or something equally ridiculous."

The words hit like small explosions. Eviction. Housing crisis. The nightmare that kept Piper awake during anxious months, despite her emergency fund and perfect credit score. She watched Drew's face, noting the dark circles, the way she held herself with stubborn dignity despite obvious exhaustion.

"I can pay rent," Drew said quickly. "I have money from gigs, and I'm careful with Pickle. He doesn't scratch furniture or make noise?—"

Another indignant yowl contradicted this immediately.

"How temporary?" Piper heard herself ask, though every practical instinct was screaming warnings about lease violations and disrupted routines.

"A week, maybe two at most," Drew said. "I've got applications in at three places, and one seemed really positive. I just need somewhere to crash while background checks process."

Sadie leaned forward like someone sensing an opening. "You've got that guest room that never gets used. And Drew's incredibly clean—she had to be, living in that shoebox with Pickle."

Piper's eye twitched. The guest room was her office overflow and meditation space, its calm maintained through careful absence of chaos.

Disrupting that sanctuary made her palms sweat, but Drew's exhausted face kept pulling her attention.

This wasn't some flighty request—this was someone facing genuine crisis with nowhere left to turn.

"My lease specifically prohibits pets," she said, though the words felt hollow.

"Pickle's registered as an emotional support animal," Drew replied. "I have documentation. Technically landlords can't discriminate?—"

"Technically and actually are different things." Piper moved to her kitchen island, needing the barrier while she processed. "If neighbors complain, or there's property damage, or anyone reports a violation?—"

"There won't be complaints," Drew said with quiet conviction. "Pickle's four years old, fully trained, and honestly he sleeps like sixteen hours a day. You'd barely know he was here."

Pickle chose that moment to rattle his carrier with what sounded like frustrated demands for immediate release. Drew shot Piper an apologetic look before kneeling to unlatch the door.

"Maybe he should stay—" Piper began, but the words died as fifteen pounds of orange tabby emerged with the dignity of displaced royalty.

Pickle surveyed the apartment with bright green eyes, taking in the minimalist furniture and spotless surfaces with what could only be described as feline judgment.

His coat was striking—deep orange with white patches across chest and paws, the kind of coloring that would photograph beautifully, if Piper were the type to take pet photos, which she absolutely was not.

"Pickle, behave," Drew murmured, but the cat had already begun his inspection.

He approached Piper's coffee table with deliberate steps, sniffing the edges before moving to investigate the couch.

Each exploration left visible orange hairs on her black leather cushions—evidence that would accumulate daily, requiring constant maintenance to preserve the apartment's careful aesthetic.

"He's just getting oriented," Drew explained, following Piper's gaze to the growing fur collection. "Once he settles, he'll pick a favorite spot and mostly stay there."

Sadie stood with the air of someone whose work was nearly done. "Look, Piper, I know this isn't ideal. But Drew's one of the most considerate people I know, and she's been through enough without having to sleep in her car."

"Car?" The word escaped before Piper could stop it.

Drew's shoulders went tight. "It's not that bad. I've done it before."

Something in her tone—resigned acceptance dressed up as casual confidence—made Piper's chest ache.

She thought of her own backup plans, emergency funds and spare keys and careful preparations that kept her from ever facing such uncertainty.

Drew had none of those safety nets, yet somehow maintained optimism that Piper both envied and couldn't fathom.

"My building has security cameras in hallways," she said slowly, working through logistics out loud. "And Mrs. Kowalski next door notices everything. If she sees pet supplies or hears anything suspicious?—"

"I can be invisible," Drew promised. "Honestly, I'm so tired I'll probably sleep for twelve hours straight."

Piper looked at her—really looked—taking in how Drew held herself upright despite clear exhaustion, the gentle way she tracked Pickle's exploration, the guitar case positioned protectively beside her duffel.

This wasn't someone asking for a handout; this was someone who'd exhausted every option and still approached with dignity intact.

"One week," she heard herself say. "Absolutely no longer, and we check in daily on your apartment applications."

Drew's face transformed with relief so profound it was almost painful to watch. "Thank you. Seriously, thank you so much. I know this is a huge inconvenience?—"

"Ground rules," Piper continued, her voice taking on professional efficiency as defense against the emotional undertow. "Quiet hours from ten PM to six AM. Kitchen cleanup immediately after use. No smoking, no parties, no guests without discussion."

"Of course, absolutely," Drew nodded eagerly.

"And Pickle stays in your room as much as possible. I can't risk neighbor complaints."

"He's actually really good about that," Drew said. "He likes small spaces—makes him feel secure."

Sadie gathered her jacket with obvious satisfaction. "I'll leave you two to work out details. Drew, text me when you're settled." She paused at the door. "Piper, seriously. You're probably saving her life right now."

After Sadie left, the apartment felt strangely quiet despite Pickle's continued exploration.

Piper led Drew down the hall to the guest room, aware of how the space would look to someone used to cramped quarters—the double bed with white duvet, empty dresser, window overlooking the tree-lined street.

"This is beautiful," Drew said softly, setting her guitar case against the wall with reverent care. "I can't believe you're letting me stay."

Piper watched Drew unpack Pickle's supplies with practiced efficiency—collapsible bowls, compact litter box, toys that had clearly seen years of use.

Every movement spoke of experience with temporary arrangements, with making spaces work despite limitations.

The realization that this wasn't Drew's first housing crisis hit unexpectedly hard.

"Bathroom's across the hall," she said, focusing on practicalities to avoid examining why she'd just upended her weekend routine for a stranger with a cat. "Fresh towels in the linen closet, space in the medicine cabinet if you need it."

Drew looked up from arranging Pickle's bed in the corner. "I really can't thank you enough. I know houseguests aren't exactly—" She gestured at Piper's precise outfit, the carefully made bed, the complete absence of clutter. "This doesn't seem like your usual thing."

Accurate enough to sting. Piper's life ran on schedules and systems designed specifically to avoid unpredictability. She couldn't remember the last impulsive decision this potentially costly to her maintained stability.

"It's temporary," she repeated, though it felt more like self-reassurance than fact.

"Completely temporary," Drew agreed. "Though I should warn you, Pickle might try winning you over. He's got this thing about charming people who claim they don't like cats."

As if summoned, Pickle appeared in the doorway. He surveyed the guest room before approaching Piper with the confidence of someone used to making himself at home anywhere. When he touched his nose to her outstretched fingers, his purr rumbled with surprising volume.

"He likes you already," Drew said with a smile that transformed her whole face. "That's actually a really good sign."

Piper pulled her hand back before getting too attached to that warm vibration. "I should let you get settled. I have work to catch up on."

Back in her kitchen, she stared at the laptop screen where quarterly projections waited with mathematical certainty.

But her attention kept drifting to sounds from the guest room—Drew's soft voice talking to Pickle, gentle thuds of belongings being arranged, the subtle shift in atmosphere from solitary precision to inhabited warmth.

Her color-coded calendar hung slightly crooked on the wall, knocked askew by Sadie's enthusiastic entrance.

Normally Piper would have straightened it immediately, but something held her back.

Maybe it was the memory of Drew's relief, or the way Pickle's purr had vibrated through her fingers, or simply the realization that her carefully controlled life had just become significantly more complicated.

One week, she reminded herself. Seven days of disrupted routine in exchange for helping someone through crisis. She could manage one week of chaos without losing everything she'd built.

The guest room had gone quiet, and Piper found herself listening for signs of her unexpected houseguests. When Pickle's purr resumed—audible even through walls—she discovered the sound didn't annoy her quite as much as expected.

Maybe one week wouldn't be completely unbearable.