It was the kind of Los Angeles morning that smells faintly of ocean salt and gasoline—sunlight slanting across palms, a dog walker with earbuds nodding to a rhythm only she could hear, and an old mattress propped against a Craftsman porch like a tired guest refusing to leave. Maria had lived in Highland Park for eight years; the house held layers of lives—children’s drawings tucked into drawers, a box of mismatched keys, a trumpet she’d promised herself she would learn. By 9 a.m. the street was already humming, and Maria was standing on her front steps, phone in hand, trying to make sense of dumpster sizes and city permits while the neighbor from Pasadena called to ask if they could borrow the garage for a yard sale.
Setting the Scene
