The steel blades of my shears made three clean cuts through the dead azalea wood before Knox lifted his head.

He didn’t bark.

He sat up on the damp grass beside the garden path, his black muzzle pointed toward the gravel turn.

A white postal van stopped beside the mailbox at the cedar fence.

The carrier climbed out holding a cream-colored legal envelope.

“This one needs a signature today, Commander,” he said.

I signed the digital screen with my left thumb.

The envelope was heavy, made of stiff paper, and bore the red ink seal of the Circuit Court of Portsmouth.

“Damp air coming off the river this morning,” the carrier said, stepping back toward his van.

I didn’t answer.

I stood still on the gravel path, resting my right palm flat on my knee until the deep ache in the joint settled into its usual rhythm.

I slid my thumb under the thick gummed flap.

Inside was an eight-page civil petition with a bold black header across the top: Case 4238B.

My father, Robert Carter, and my mother, Margaret Carter, were listed as co-plaintiffs.

My full legal name sat on the line beneath theirs.

They were suing for full legal title and a forced partition of the historic 1920s farmhouse my grandfather had left to me.

Knox walked beside me as I went up the porch steps.

The cold floorboards in the unheated hallway creaked under my boots.