The steady hum spiked into a sharp, high-pitched squeal that made me step back.

“Found it,” Carl said.

He knelt in the damp grass, pulled a small hand trowel from his canvas bag, and began to scrape away the thick sod.

I stood close to his shoulder, watching his calloused fingers dig into the dark Ohio clay until they scraped against something hard and rusted.

It was the top of an old iron pipe, no wider than a quarter, buried three inches deep.

“Is that the actual corner of my property?” I asked.