The moment the truck’s engine rolled to a stop in front of Maya’s bungalow, the neighborhood seemed to hold its breath — a low, metallic rumble, the hiss of hydraulics, and the smell of hot tar from the nearby street patching. For three days she had been living inside a cloud of plaster dust and paint chips, negotiating tile samples and phone calls, and now a bright blue roll-off dumpster crouched like a patient beast on her curb in Echo Park, mouth open and ready.
Setting the Scene
The bungalow sat on a narrow, tree-lined street where cyclists and delivery vans threaded past at any hour. From her kitchen window Maya could see the glint of the Hollywood sign to the north and the faint line of ocean on the horizon. She had chosen this neighborhood for its light and its neighbors who brought casseroles and lending hands when projects threatened to overwhelm a person. Today, Harold from next door stood on the sidewalk, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, watching the driver maneuver the dumpster into place.
