Chapter 2
Gemma
The good news is that my apartment has water.
The bad news is that all of it is currently on the floor.
The cold soaks through my mismatched footwear—one duck-covered rain boot keeping my left foot marginally dry, one purple fuzzy slipper on my right that's now achieved the structural integrity of wet bread. Water laps at my ankles. The apartment smells like mildew and defeat.
The water keeps coming, a steady stream from somewhere behind my bathroom wall that sounds like someone's running a faucet full-blast inside the drywall.
"This is fine," I say to absolutely no one, standing ankle-deep in what used to be my living room at three in the afternoon.
This is not fine.
My back aches from the emergency shift I just finished. My uniform is still damp with someone else's blood from the car accident on Route 10. Now I'm standing in my own personal disaster, and the laugh that bubbles up tastes hysterical.
I wade toward the bathroom, the slipper making obscene squelching noises with each step. The property manager's number goes straight to voicemail—a recording that still mentions Y2K preparedness. I've called three times. On the fourth attempt, I get creative.
"Hi, Jerry, it's Gemma Lockhart again. Still flooding.
Now 3 PM. Still very much underwater in unit 2B.
I'm starting to think you're avoiding me, which feels personal since we've never actually met.
Anyway, guess I live in a pond now. If you need me, I'll be building a dam out of towels and a boat to get around in. "
I hang up and survey the damage. I hang up and survey the damage.
My medical textbooks bob past like very expensive boats.
One vintage band poster does a slow rotation, the corner dragging through water.
My houseplant—Kevin the fern—floats in his pot near the kitchen counter, listing to one side like a shipwreck survivor.
My throat tightens. Everything I own fits in this 600-square-foot box, and half of it's drowning. .
"Sorry, Kevin," I tell the plant. Kevin doesn't respond, probably because he's a fern and also possibly drowning.
My phone buzzes. Tasha from the station.
Tasha: You good?
I snap a photo of my flooded living room, complete with duck boot and disaster slipper, and send it.
Three dots appear. Then:
Tasha: Holy shit. You okay?
Me: Define okay. If okay means I'm considering whether my renter's insurance covers emotional distress, then yes.
I type back.
Tasha: Get out of there. You can crash at my place.
The offer is tempting, but Tasha has three kids under ten and a husband who works nights. The last thing she needs is me taking up valuable couch real estate when she's running on four hours of sleep and pure spite.
Me: Thanks, but I'm good. Already lined up a new place.
Tasha: The rental listing I sent you? You got it?
Me: Paid the deposit yesterday. Moving in tonight, apparently.
Tasha: Tonight? It's 3 PM.
Me: Technically it's already tonight. I'm just early.
The water is now deep enough that the slipper has fully surrendered.
I fish it out and drop it in the trash can, hopping toward my bedroom on one booted foot.
The squelching sound my boot makes is obscene.
Water drips down my leg. My ankle throbs from the awkward angle.
The bedroom threshold—that stupid raised piece I've stubbed my toe on approximately fifty times—is tonight's hero. The carpet inside is blessedly dry..
I start grabbing clothes and shoving them into trash bags because every box I own is currently floating in the living room.
Underwear, sports bras, the collection of oversized t-shirts I sleep in—all of it goes into bags with the efficiency of someone who has exactly zero attachment to material possessions anymore.
Six months ago, I had an apartment in Denver. Hardwood floors, mountain views, a career trajectory that actually went somewhere. Six months ago, my hands didn't shake when I reached for an IV bag.
Now I'm the paramedic who moved to a town so small the grocery store uses handwritten signs. Who took a job where the biggest emergency is Mrs. Henderson's cable going out during Wheel of Fortune. Who can't make it through a trauma call without shaking so badly my partner has to take over.
And right now? I'm standing in a flooded apartment at 3 PM, packing my life into trash bags while wearing one duck-covered rain boot.
"Living the dream," I mutter, tossing my entire sock drawer into a bag without bothering to sort. "Absolutely crushing it."
My hands steady when I shove clothes into a trash bag. Packing is easier than remembering. The physical work helps—grab, stuff, tie. Repeat. Don't think about the four-year-old who coded. Don't think about how my hands wouldn't stop shaking when it mattered.
My phone buzzes again.
Unknown number: This is Jerry Kowalski from Mountain View Property Management. Got your messages. Pipe burst is building-wide. Whole plumbing system needs replacement. Won't be habitable for at least six weeks.
I stare at the message. Six weeks. Not two days, not "we'll have it fixed by tonight." Six weeks of my apartment being a very expensive wading pool.
I type back:
Me: So I'm evicted?
Jerry: Temporarily displaced. Rent will be prorated.
Me: That's not actually helpful right now.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally:
Jerry: Sorry. Best I can do.
Fantastic. I add "housing crisis" to tonight's list of achievements, right below "matching footwear is for quitters" and "professional disaster victim."
By the time the sun goes down, I've loaded everything I could salvage into my ancient Honda Civic.
The back seat is a Tetris puzzle of trash bags and milk crates.
The trunk holds my mattress, which I had to fold into a shape that definitely violates its warranty.
The passenger seat cradles Kevin the fern, who's looking surprisingly perky considering his recent near-death experience.
Sweat plasters my shirt to my back. My arms shake from hauling the mattress.
The sun's dropping below the mountains, painting everything orange and pink, and I'm standing in a parking lot next to my entire life crammed into a fifteen-year-old Honda.
“Could be worse,” I tell Kevin. “Could be raining.” Kevin doesn't comment, but I swear his fronds droop judgmentally.
"We're going to be fine," I keep talking to Kevin. "The new place has a yard. You'll love it."
Kevin offers no comment.
The realtor's email said the landlord would leave the keys in the lockbox.
The landlord who, according to the listing, is "a firefighter captain relocating to Copper Ridge for work.
" Which seemed promising—firefighters are generally responsible humans who pay their bills and don't let their rental properties flood.
The address leads me to a neighborhood I've driven through but never really noticed.
Tree-lined streets, houses with actual yards, the kind of place where people probably know their neighbors' names and bring each other casseroles.
It's aggressively charming in a way that makes my Denver apartment—former Denver apartment—look like a concrete shoebox.
The street smells like cut grass and someone's barbecue.
Sprinklers tick-tick-tick across perfect lawns.
A couple walks past with a golden retriever, waving like they know me.
They don't, but that's apparently how things work here.
My stomach knots. I don't do neighborhoods like this.
I do anonymous apartment complexes where nobody knows if you're home or dead for a week.
The main house is a Craftsman-style beauty with a porch swing and window boxes that someone has actually planted flowers in.
My chest tightens looking at it. This is the kind of house families live in.
The kind with matching dish towels and photo albums and people who stay.
Not the kind of place for someone who keeps her life in trash bags.
The in-law suite sits off to the side. It's small—basically a studio with delusions of grandeur—but it has windows and a door that doesn't stick and what appears to be functional plumbing.
"The bar is so low it's underground," I inform Kevin as I punch the code into the lockbox. "But we're clearing it."
The key turns smoothly. The door swings open without squealing. The light switch actually turns on overhead lights instead of sparking ominously. I'm three for three on basic functionality, which feels like winning the lottery.
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.
The couch springs dig into my spine. The ceiling has a water stain shaped like Montana, which feels weirdly appropriate. Through the window, Clarence is still watching. I lift a hand in a weak wave. He blinks once—slow, deliberate—then jumps down and disappears.
My phone buzzes. Tasha again.
Tasha: You sure you're okay?
I look around at the trash bags, the milk crates, Kevin listing slightly to one side on the counter. The beige walls. The dry floor.
Me: Floor's dry. Ceiling's intact. I have a judgmental cat neighbor. Living the dream.
Tasha: That's my girl.
I close my eyes. Tomorrow I meet my landlord—the firefighter captain who presumably has his life together enough to own property.
Tonight, I'm just grateful I'm not standing in ankle-deep water.
Small victories.
Through the wall, I hear footsteps. A deep voice—male, muffled. Then a child's laugh, bright and sudden. My landlord has a kid. Great.
Nothing says 'temporary arrangement' like a kid asking questions I don't know how to answer.
I pull a trash bag over myself like a blanket and let exhaustion win.