But as I stood there, taking it all in, I saw what no one else did.
I saw potential.
And I’ve never been the kind of person to walk away from that.
On the first day, I showed up wearing rubber gloves that reached my elbows, a hardware-store mask, and trash bags the size of sleeping sacks.
I started with the garbage. One bag at a time, lifting them without looking inside—because I knew if I looked, I’d quit. I crushed soaked boxes under my feet and stuffed them into bags. I swept the newspaper dust into piles and shoveled it out. Four trips. Five. Six. Eventually, neighbors started bringing me extra bags when they saw me working.
“Oh, the new girl in the shop!” they said. “Need help?”
“Yes,” I replied. “More bags.”
I washed dishes one by one under the weak trickle of a barely working faucet. Some were so far gone that I smashed them on the floor and threw them away in pieces. I wasn’t there to clean someone else’s mess—I was there to change the place.
The nest terrified me, I won’t lie. I called my neighbor Don Aurelio, who had been fixing things in the area for twenty years. He arrived with a long shovel and a serious expression.