“This one is.”
“With respect, old fences can be misleading.”
“With respect, so can people who want something.”
His voice tightened. “We spent close to thirty-five thousand dollars on excavation already. We did our due diligence.”
I looked across the torn earth, the redirected spring, the crushed saplings. “Your due diligence just dug a hole in my land.”
“I think we should let the professionals sort this out.”
“I think you should stop work immediately.”
There was another pause, shorter this time.
“I’ll talk to the contractor,” he said.
But he did not say yes.
That was the first clear warning.
Over the next few days, I tried to let reason lead anger around by the collar. I took photographs. I walked the fence. I marked distances. I pulled my deed, my father’s deed, and copies of old boundary notes from a file cabinet in my office. I did not call Brent again because I knew the next conversation would not be neighborly. Instead, I called Harold Bennett.
