He gripped the bottom corners of the bag, shaking the last of the black shreds onto the lawn, burying the thin wire stems of the surveyor flags under a heavy, dark mound.

“It is a finished edge, Joan,” he said, tossing the empty plastic sack onto his patio steps.

“My contractor said we need to grade the runoff, or the new pool patio will drain right into my crawlspace.

I am just leveling the low spots.”

“The survey shows the line is eight feet back,” I said, my voice shaking slightly as I adjusted my glasses.

“You need to move the fence.”