He walked slowly down his patio steps, his leather shoes crunching on the gravel path his workers had laid.

He stopped two feet from the cedar fence, his face visible through the narrow gap between the end post and my house.

“You are wasting your time,” he said, jingling the coins in his pocket.

“The pool contractor is coming on August fifteenth.

That concrete is getting poured whether you like it or not.”

“The survey says this is my land,” I said, pointing the camera toward the fence line.

“Your survey is wrong,” Tyler said, his voice dropping to a low, hard pitch.