That night, he opened the CoverHive app and raised his liability coverage to $300,000. He also read the entire policy, line by boring line. He learned what was covered (his laptop, his clothes, his couch, if a fire took them) and what wasn’t (floods, earthquakes, and his own stupidity with a baseball).
“Not so fast,” Denise said, typing. “You have ‘Loss of Use’ coverage. Since that window is letting in cold air, your apartment is technically uninhabitable until it’s fixed. We can put you up in a hotel for a few nights. Also, your liability section has a $100,000 limit. If the landlord sues you for the cost of the window, we defend you and pay the judgement. But you’d still have to pay your deductible.”
“So I’m screwed?”
Mr. Gable pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket. “I’ll have a quote by tomorrow. But my guess? With installation? Twelve hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred dollars.”
His landlord, Mr. Gable, was a retired marine with a mustache that looked like it could survive a nuclear blast. He appeared at Leo’s door within seven minutes, not even out of breath from the three flights of stairs.
“What’s my deductible?”
That night, he called his mom. She listened to the whole sorry tale—the glove, the ex, the window—and then said the words he dreaded: “Didn’t you get the renters insurance I told you about?”