At 7:12 on a Saturday morning, Elena Ruiz stood in the middle of her grandmother’s garage in Pasadena, holding a cracked lampshade and staring at a mountain of everything else. A rusted bicycle leaned against a stack of paint cans. Cardboard boxes sagged beneath old blankets. Behind them, a heavy wooden cabinet blocked the path to the driveway.
Outside, the San Gabriel Mountains caught the first pale light of day. Inside, dust floated through a shaft of sun, and the air smelled of dry wood, motor oil, and the faint sweetness of the orange tree beside the garage.
