We all have pals who think crashing for a couple of nights is a magical phrase that suspends all laws of hospitality, hygiene, and common decency. 

You open your home out of generosity, lending your couch and a bouncy rectangle of air masquerading as a mattress. Next thing you know, your apartment has become a budget hostel with the world’s worst Yelp reviews, featuring a bonus cameo by their mystery friend who treats your living room like his personal locker room.

The script is familiar. Promised two or three nights, you now find yourself deep into an unsanctioned squatters’ festival. Every morning brings a new excuse for their extended stay: mysterious car trouble, sudden «can’t miss» city expeditions, or other sorts of emergencies only cured by another night on your floor.