The cedar boards were already up, blocking the morning light from reaching the hostas along my foundation.

Tyler Bennett stood on my side of the orange plastic flags, tipping a plastic bag of dark hardwood mulch onto the grass I had mowed for eleven years.

The smell of damp wood chips filled the air, thick and sweet, competing with the scent of fresh-cut cedar from his new fence.

“Tyler, that is my grass,” I said, stepping closer to the line of orange markers Carl Henderson had set.

He did not stop pouring.