At 7:12 on a Tuesday morning, the first cabinet door slid off its hinges and landed in the driveway with a crack that startled a flock of pigeons from the power lines. Maya stood beside the open garage, holding a mug of coffee gone cold. Around her, the remains of a kitchen renovation rose in uneven heaps: splintered cabinets, torn drywall, bent trim, and a carpet of screws glittering in the sun. Her contractor had promised the job would be finished by Friday. He had not mentioned the mountain.
Across the street in their quiet corner of Pasadena, a neighbor eased a sedan past the curb and glanced at the debris. Maya looked at the narrow driveway, then at the pile.
