“I’d strongly advise you not to file an official boundary challenge,” Arthur said softly.

“The board won’t back it.”

He walked off along the curb toward the next drain, leaving me standing on the pavement holding the paper map.

By three o’clock that afternoon the sun was beating down on the strip of gravel between our driveways.

Trent was standing next to a heavy iron squat rack set up on his side of the asphalt, rubbing dark grease onto the upright steel bars with a rag.

I walked to the gravel border and stopped two feet inside my side of the grass.