Rachel O'Grady | June 13, 2019
I woke up the morning of January 25 worried about whether I would have a job by the end of the day. By 9 p.m., I had a bigger worry: the two inches of standing water that had dripped into my 23rd-floor apartment.
At some point earlier that evening, a pipe had burst on the 28th floor — which our building management had failed to let us know about until a steady stream of water had made its way into my two-bedroom in downtown Detroit.
I arrived home to find my roommate, Tyler, standing in the living room, schlepping water into the clear plastic tubs we had used to move in a mere six months ago. I tried to remember what my parents had done when our basement flooded when I was younger. Were there buckets? I think we had a big fan to dry it up, but I’m not sure — no one had ever told me what to do with a flooded apartment.
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