They were stacking them in a neat pile right next to the disputed fence, well within the eight-foot strip of my lawn.

“They are building a pergola,” Emma said, her voice rising with a quick, nervous energy.

“It is going to cover the whole side of his patio, right over your grass.”

One of the workers carried a heavy post toward the orange surveyor flags, tossing it onto the grass with a dull thud that shook the ground.

“Excuse me,” I called out, taking a step toward the fence.

“Those orange flags are legal boundary markers.”