At 7:12 on a bright Saturday morning, Ana stood in the driveway of her family’s Pasadena bungalow, holding a cracked lamp in one hand and a question in the other: How had one small house collected so much stuff?
Behind her, the garage yawned open. Dust floated in the stripes of sunlight. A broken patio chair leaned against boxes of old tile, a rusted bed frame, and a heap of branches left after last week’s windstorm. Her father was due to arrive in two hours to help clear the space, and Ana had promised they would finally make room for the workbench he had talked about for years.
