At 7:12 on a warm Saturday morning, Elena stood in the driveway of her family’s bungalow in Pasadena, holding a cracked lamp shade and wondering how one small house had produced so much stuff. A faded sofa leaned against the garage. Boxes of old tile crowded the walkway. Behind her, her brother Marcus was trying to maneuver a splintered bookcase through a doorway that had clearly been designed for slimmer furniture.
