I ran outside as the truck’s drum began to turn. Diane’s car skidded to the curb, and she stepped out holding a manila folder and a printed notice. “Stop the pour,” she called to the foreman. He looked at her, then at Travis, who stormed across the yard shouting that nobody could stop him. Diane handed the foreman a document stamped by the county that morning.

The foreman read it and cut the engine. “Sir, the permit is flagged,” he said quietly. “The plan on file shows a different line than the one you showed us.” Travis went pale. Then a county inspector’s truck pulled up behind the mixer, and a woman stepped out with a clipboard and a camera. She looked at the fence, then at the orange flags in the grass.