7 THE SCIENTIST
Peter Valois emerged from his San Diego ranch house at seven a.m. for his short commute to work. The calendar said April, but it was already warm enough to make him feel damp in his sports coat. He approached his Jeep and noticed the new crease in the bumper. Damn kid drives with his eyes closed.
The lawn had not been mowed, and the uneven growth marred the precision of his wife’s landscaping. Warm weather and a bit of rain had forced everything along—the goldenbush and honeysuckle, the boxthorn below the picture window, the western azalea at the lamppost, and the out-of-control grass.
Seventeen-year-old Dan Valois slouched through the front mahogany door with a backpack and a skateboard.
“Dan, look at this lawn. It needs attention. I’ve asked twice before. Since
