The worker did not look up.

He picked up a shovel and began marking out a square on the turf, his spade cutting through the roots of my hostas.

“We just follow the layout on the permit drawing, ma’am,” the worker said, pointing toward a white clipboard sitting on the hood of the truck.

Emma took my hand, her grip tight and cold.

“Mom,” Emma whispered.

“He is doing this on purpose.