At 7:12 on a warm Saturday morning in Pasadena, a crow landed on the rim of a battered sofa and let out a sharp, offended caw. Below it, Mateo Reyes stood in the driveway with a mug of coffee, surveying the growing mountain of renovation debris that had swallowed half his yard. Plaster dust softened the air. Broken cabinet doors leaned against a stack of old flooring, and a rusted swing set waited beside a heap of branches. His daughter had been promised a place to ride her bike by Sunday. The dumpster company was due before noon. The question was whether everything would fit.
For Mateo, the project had begun with one loose kitchen tile and a plan to
