The President stepped closer to the fence.
“You understand your trucks cannot cross once this cures.”
The Homeowner nodded.
“I understand what you poured.”
“You'll use your western entrance.”
“No.”
Her smile disappeared.
“You don't have another option.”
“Maybe.”
She laughed.
“You're still doing this.”
The Homeowner looked toward the Site Manager.
“How much left?”
The man hesitated.
The President snapped:
“Don't answer him.”
The Homeowner smiled.
The Site Manager looked embarrassed.
“Twenty minutes.”
The President stared at him.
He returned to work.
The Homeowner waited.
A lender’s construction inspector arrived.
Blue hard hat.
Reflective yellow vest.
Clipboard.
He walked the site with the contractor.
The Homeowner recognized him from a previous inspection.
Good.
More concrete.
More steel disappeared.
The President paced.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Finally the last hose stopped.
Workers began smoothing.
The Site Manager shouted:
“Primary pour complete.”
The Homeowner looked at his watch.
Then reached into a waterproof document tube strapped behind the dirt-bike seat.
The President noticed.
“What now?”
He removed a yellowed photocopy.
Not the original.
His attorney would kill him if he brought the original to a construction site.
He walked to the chain-link fence.
The President approached.
He slid the deed through an opening.
She stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Recorded deed.”
She looked at the date.
Then laughed.
“1948?”
“Yes.”
“You've been standing here watching us pour concrete because you found seventy-year-old paper in a barn?”
“Seventy-eight.”
She shook her head.
“You're unbelievable.”
The lender's inspector had overheard.
He walked closer.
“What deed?”
The Homeowner looked toward him.
“Mineral severance.”
The inspector stopped.
The President immediately interjected.
“It’s irrelevant.”
The inspector extended his hand.
“May I?”
The President held the paper.
For a moment, she did not give it to him.
Then she did.
He read.
His expression changed.
The President noticed.
“It’s ancient.”
The inspector kept reading.
The Homeowner said:
“Recorded book 314, page 88.”
The inspector checked the legal description.
Then pulled a site survey from his clipboard.
His finger moved across the map.
He looked toward the new foundation.
Then back at the deed.
“Who owns the retained estate?”
The Homeowner raised one hand.
“My family trust.”
The President laughed again.
But weaker.
“You cannot own dirt under property we purchased.”
The inspector looked at her.
“You can.”
Her face tightened.
The Homeowner leaned against the fence.