At 6:17 on a Saturday morning in Pasadena, the old bungalow looked as if it were trying to disappear beneath its own belongings. A cracked bookcase leaned against the garage. Flattened cardboard covered the driveway, and a rusted patio set crowded the narrow path to the sidewalk. Inside, Mara stood in a doorway with a mug of coffee gone cold, watching her brother Daniel wrestle a mattress toward the front steps.
