“We’ll handle the boundary through official paperwork,” I said.

Trent laughed out loud and turned his back on me to wipe down the steel squat rack with his greasy rag.

At seven fifteen that evening, Nora Hayes came up my front porch steps carrying a yellowed manila folder.

She sat on the top wooden step and put two glass jars of cold iced tea on the painted boards.

Nora patted her cardigan pockets before pulling out an official thirty-eight-dollar property survey filing receipt from five years earlier.

“I spent three hours at the town archives this afternoon,” Nora said quietly, every word clear and exact.