Arthur Peterson put his white paper coffee cup down on the damp green slats of the park bench.

He pushed his silver-framed glasses up by the bridge twice, then smoothed the lapel of his light brown windbreaker.

“The township survey doesn’t carry as much weight as you think, David,” Arthur said.

“The rejected permit was filed three months ago,” I said.

“Harry Caldwell knows exactly where his property line is.”

“Harry’s a former logistics executive with a lot of capital behind him.” Arthur leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.

“He’s already talked about paying for the entire structural renovation of the borough library annex.”