String connected them.

And the line they created ran several feet inside my yard.

I stared at it.

My coffee suddenly seemed irrelevant.

I went inside and pulled my closing binder from the office.

My original survey was still there.

I unfolded it across the kitchen table.

The property line was clear.

I checked the oak tree.

Then the driveway.

Then the drainage grate near the street.

There was no ambiguity.

The fence was going to cross my property.

I walked over.

Denise was standing beside the contractor, pointing at a diagram.

“Morning,” I said.

She turned.

“Ethan.”

“I think your stakes are wrong.”

The contractor looked uncomfortable.

Denise smiled.

“Oh, Ethan. No.”

I held up my survey.

“This is the original closing survey.”

“The property line runs farther east.”

“No, it doesn't.”

She sighed.

“The HOA updated the boundary references years ago.”

I stared at her.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the line has been reviewed.”

“By whom?”

“The association.”

“The association can't change a deeded property boundary.”

Her expression hardened.

“Nobody is changing anything. We're correcting an old misunderstanding.”

I looked at the contractor.

“You should verify this before installing anything.”

He glanced at Denise.

She nodded.

“You have authorization.”

I looked back at her.

“You don't have permission to build on my property.”

Her smile disappeared.

“Ethan, don't embarrass yourself.”

Something inside me went still.

I folded my survey.

“I am warning you once. If this fence crosses my property line, this becomes a legal matter.”

Denise laughed.

“Then I suppose you had better call your lawyer.”

The workers continued.