A low rumble rolled down the gravel road, and Cordelia’s laugh faded. A flatbed carrying a concrete saw and a small excavator turned through my gate, followed by a county surveyor in an orange vest. “Mr. Hale,” he called, holding up a stamped plat, “the pins are exactly where they were eight years ago.” Cordelia’s sunglasses slipped from her hair and landed on the slab. “You cannot do this,” she whispered, but the saw operator was already chalking a line eleven feet inside my fence.

She yanked out her phone and called her contractor, her voice climbing with every word. Then the color left her face. She lowered the phone, and the man’s voice came through the speaker, clear and shaking. “Ma’am, I should have told you before the pour. The survey you gave me was not the real one. I have the original in my email, and somebody altered the boundary on yours.” Cordelia stared at me, then at the paper in the surveyor’s hand, and I understood this was only the start.