At 6:17 on a Saturday morning, a refrigerator door swung open in the middle of Maple Street. It had been wedged beside a sagging sofa, a stack of cracked tiles, and three black bags of mystery debris. Across the street, a neighbor peered through her blinds. A delivery van slowed, then swerved around the growing pile. And in the driveway, Elena Ruiz stood with a roll of painter’s tape in one hand and the unmistakable look of someone whose home renovation had outgrown the garage.
