Rachel sighed, looking out the window of her office toward the parking lot.

“Our local zoning officials are incredibly slow to respond to these kinds of permit violations,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet edge of frustration.

“If we wait for the county to act, the fence will be the least of your worries.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“People can surprise you when eighty-two hundred dollars of cedar fencing is on the line,” Rachel said.

She slid the deed back across the desk toward me.