I had helped Carla McCarthy out several times before. A lot of us at the company were good friends with her adult children. A lot of us had grown up with them. This was probably the final time at would ever be at her house, and it was the worst. That massive, beautiful house that had once been host to so many good memories had been laid to waste. The squatters had nearly ruined it. Walking in, opening refridgerator door, only to see the maggots squirm and the fruit flies fly out. See shit literally spayed on top of the toilet seat cover. Not the seat, not the bowl, the actual cover. And looking at all the broken doors and wondering what the fuck happened here. I had been in this house last year. Carla McCarthy's son, Miles, had died. He was actually a good friend. Early on in the pandemic, Carla left for California. Nothing to do with the pandemic, she just had to care for her ailing Mother. Miles got the house. Miles got laid off, and was given money from the government to do nothing, because Miles was not essential. Mile was not ever a Saint, But I don't think Miles would've OD'd if he was working. I got to move his shit out of Carla's house a year ago. Then it went to Cathy. Cathy, her oldest daughter, always seemed a little on the spectrum. A little desperate to be liked. Seriously naive. She let some junky boyfriend move in with her, and he brought his friends, and his friends brought squatters. And, I got to see this house evolve. It was so different when I went over there as a child. Such a large, happy, family. Disintegrated.