“I have lived here eleven years, Tyler, and my lawn has always gone all the way to the old telephone pole.”

“The old markers are usually wrong anyway,” he said, taking a step toward his side door.

“Trust the digital plots.

They are accurate to the inch.”

“I might have to call a county surveyor to verify,” I said.

Tyler stopped, his fingers tightening on the grocery bags.

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

He turned his back and walked inside his house, the change in his pocket jingling with every step.