“The tractor, your grandfather’s wood lathe, every hand tool in the shop.”

We walked together up to the workshop entrance.

A six-foot length of heavy steel chain was threaded through the timber handles and secured with a brass padlock bearing the circuit court stamp.

“Does this emergency order touch the main house?” I asked.

“No,” Daniel said, turning back toward the gravel.

“The house stays protected under your state residency filing until the final hearing.”

We went into the kitchen, where the unheated pine floorboards felt like cold stone under my boots.