“The fence is eight feet onto my side.”

Tyler let out a short, easy laugh that did not reach his eyes.

“Fences end up a little off all the time, Joan,” he said.

He reached into his pocket, his hand moving as he jangled his loose coins.

“It is a standard margin of error in residential developments.

We are talking about a few inches of grass.”

“It is eight feet,” I said.

“And it blocks the wooden swing.”