No pocketknife’s going to rip these down.”

“How many did you buy?” I asked, coming down the wooden steps.

“Thirty-two,” he said, reaching into the bed and hoisting the heavy box.

“That covers every sixteen rods along your south and west lines, with six extra for the gate line.”

He set the box on the bottom porch step and looked out at the oak ridge rising behind the old red barn.

“Did Brad come by while you were in town?” he asked.