But the most surprising transformation had been on York itself, which one of Oscar’s realtor colleagues—before the boom—had half-jokingly referred to as “Mexico.” Oscar had come here often when he was a kid, to pick up milk from his mother at the corner bodega or to visit his buddy Reynaldo at the bike repair shop, and the conversations, the store signs, the music wafting through the air, were all in Spanish. It had stayed that way for years.

The first sign of change had been the hipster bar, called simply The Highland. Oscar was driving down York late one Friday a few years ago, heading home from a family-run Mexican place that had been there all his life, and was surprised to see dozens of white people in their twenties and thirties milling around on the sidewalk. At first he thought he’d had too much to drink. But no, they were really there, in front of a brand-new establishment. He peered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and saw at least a hundred people, an L-shaped bar, and a huge screen airing an old black-and-white movie. The beers were all microbrew, he found when he went in, the salads watercress and arugula. After The Highland came a coffee shop, a few more restaurants, a wine bar, a pilates studio. But while these places gained a foothold, the advance stopped there—the rest of the block remained stubbornly barrio, and really, Oscar was glad; it was hard to see such drastic change hit so close to home, especially since people he’d known for years were getting priced out of the neighborhood.

He had profited, too, from the real estate boom. Truthfully, it had made him. In his early- and midtwenties he had worked for his uncle David, building driveways and brick patios and retaining walls, trying to stabilize all the properties in those unstable hills. But he’d grown tired of the physical work and of spending days in the sun, and ten years ago, at age twenty-seven, he’d gotten his real estate license, just before property values went through the roof and the feeding frenzy began. Little two-bedroom bungalows that had fetched $150,000 before the boom were suddenly selling for five or six hundred thousand, anything three bedrooms or more was up to a million, all this in neighborhoods that were never mentioned—at the time—in any guidebook description of the city. Empty land was going too, to developers building on spec. Sounds of construction echoed through the once-quiet canyons.

At the height of the market, Oscar was making thirty-five, forty grand a month. He bought a BMW, a Rolex, and a four-bedroom house in the hills of Glassell Park. He bought a small Craftsman bungalow for his mother too, down in Highland Park near the apartment building where he and his sister had grown up. And there were women, lots of them, of every color and creed, single women and lonely married women who showed up for open houses and lingered after everyone else had left. He’d dated other agents too, including Lily’s mom, Tammy Ng, who’d represented a buyer to his seller during a particularly drawn-out transaction in Eagle Rock.

But the housing frenzy had come to a halt five years ago. Not sudden, not screeching, but gradual, first fewer clients and properties on the market for weeks, even months, and then the prices started to fall. By the time Oscar realized what was happening, he’d sunk a couple hundred thousand into a string of five houses built on spec in a canyon in Mount Washington. Finished three years ago, the houses stood empty, the gas and electric never hooked up, the connecting road from the main street never completed. All through the hills, houses stood half-built, foundations or retaining walls or septic tank pipes sticking out of the ground, like the remnants of a ghost town that had never been a real one. Now, Oscar was lucky to move a house every other month. Now, his savings were almost gone, and he was barely making his mortgage. He’d defaulted on the loan for the spec houses and the bank had taken them over, but that was the extent of the damage. Thank God he’d put down half the price of his house, and paid his mother’s place off in full.

He turned right onto Avenue 50, which had a new coffee shop on the corner, empty now, at six p.m., as the artists and hipsters who filled it during the day moved a few doors down to The Highland. Two blocks later it was left on Baltimore, past his old elementary school and then to his mother’s place. It was cute, her house, a two-bedroom bungalow placed well above the street, a single-car garage at street level. Oscar had cleared a little seating area on top of the garage, but his mother preferred to sit on the patio, under the overhanging roof, where she could look out at her yard and keep an eye on the neighborhood. She’d lived alone since Oscar’s father died when he was nineteen, and he tried to see her at least once a week. His sister, who worked as an insurance claims adjuster down in Tustin, didn’t make it over as much.

“Grandma! Grandma!” Lily cried out excitedly, as they pulled up in front of the house. From next door, he could hear the strains of music, people laughing on their patio. It was a gorgeous night—warm, but with a breeze, the scent of jasmine and oleander in the air, the clouds turning pink over the San Gabriel Mountains. The night-blooming cactus was preparing to flower, elegant green and purple fingers holding a single white orb, like a hand gently offering an ornament. He reached up to pull the string that undid the gate latch, wishing again that his mother would let him put a lock on it. There’d been a couple of break-ins recently, and the block was home to several members of the Avenues, who’d linger on the sidewalks or drive slowly down the street to remind everyone of their presence. Lily scrambled up the stairs ahead of him and straight to the front porch, where his mother was sitting in her usual spot, in a cheap metal-framed chair with a faded blue cushion.

“Buenas noches, mija!” she exclaimed, arms open wide, and Lily ran straight into them. “Hi, mijo,” she said to Oscar, smiling, and as he mounted the patio stairs, he said, “Hola, Mom. Did you just get home?”

She was still dressed for work, in the gray blouse and skirt issued to the female catering staff at the Hilton Pasadena. Her hair was tucked into a ponytail, with a couple of strands loose. She looked tired, and it pained him to see her this way, pained him that she worked this job at all. He didn’t like that she was on her feet all day, setting up tables and clearing plates, being ignored or worse, yelled at, by the kinds of people who go to hotels for conferences. He didn’t like that people called her by her first name, Dulce, which was printed on the name tag the staff were all required to wear.

“Yes,” she replied. “There was a conference today, nine hundred people, continental breakfast, lunch, and afternoon snack. It kept us busy. Ay, I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry. We could have come later, Mom.”

She waved him off. “No, no, it’s fine, Oscar. Besides, our little girl here needs to eat.”

“Oh, I should have brought something,” he said. “You’ve been working all day. You shouldn’t have to cook.”

Again his mother waved him off. “Ay, mijo, it’s no big deal. I made some enchiladas last night. All I have to do is warm them up.”

They moved inside, and his mother disappeared into her room, returning in loose pants, a button-down shirt, and sandals. She slid the baking pan of enchiladas into the oven, while Lily went to the cabinet in the living room where her toys were stored and pulled out several dolls. Oscar sat in the dining room where he could keep an eye on Lily in the living room and on his mother straight ahead in the kitchen.

“So . . . you can drop Lily off at day care any time after seven a.m.,” he said. “And then pick her up—”

“After four thirty. I know, Oscar. I promise it will be fine. I did raise you and Sylvia, you know.”