I looked through the torn land, the redirected spring, the squashed shoots. “Your due diligence just digged a hole in my land.”
“I think we should let the professionals solve this.”
“I think you should stop working right away.”
This time there was another pause, shorter.
“I’m going to talk to the contractor,” he said.
But he didn’t say yes.
That was the first clear warning.
In the next few days, I tried to let reason carry anger by the neck. I took pictures. I walked down the fence. I’ve marked distances. I took out my writing, my father’s writing and copies of old notes from a file in my office. I didn’t call the Brent again because I knew the next conversation wouldn’t be a neighbor. Instead, I called Harold Bennett.
Harold was a surveyor who had done wood evaluation work for me years earlier. He was about sixty years old, thin as a close-up rail, with sunshine-brown skin, a white mustache and the patience of a man who trusted in measurements rather than moods. He had a habit of taking off his glasses before saying anything unpleasant, as if he wanted the world to fade slightly when people reacted badly.
