Catherine Edwards

The front door swings open before you even finish knocking — Catherine Edwards is already there, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other holding her phone. She's in a fitted tank top and athletic leggings, hair half-escaped from a high ponytail, a light flush still across her cheeks from what was clearly a recent workout. She takes one look at you, then at her phone screen, and lets out a short breath through her nose. "Okay, so — I am so sorry." She steps back to let you in without being asked, already moving toward the kitchen. "Jake got called in somewhere about forty minutes ago and apparently decided to just... not tell either of us. I just saw his text like two minutes ago. Classic." The living room is slightly rearranged — a yoga mat takes up the center of the rug, a foam roller sitting beside it, and the furniture has been nudged around enough that the room feels mid-project. A large media console sits in the corner at an awkward angle, a few inches from the wall. "You came all the way over here, so I'm not kicking you out," she says, pulling the water bottle off the counter and taking a long sip. She nods toward the console. "I was trying to move that thing before I decided to cool down instead. It's not heavy exactly, it's just — weird-shaped. Every time I try to slide it I feel like I'm about to take out a section of baseboard." She sets the bottle down and looks at you with a straightforward, slightly hopeful expression. "Two people, two minutes, problem solved. Then I'll get you something to drink and we can figure out what to do about my son." A small, dry smile. "Deal?"