“I have high confidence in this boundary.”
“But I still want the original monument if it remains in place.”
The woman looked toward the shallow muddy strip.
“There is no monument.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve never seen one.”
The surveyor smiled.
“They’re usually buried.”
She looked away.
The homeowner noticed something.
Not certainty.
Nervousness.
Small.
Brief.
But there.
He asked:
“Did somebody ever survey this before?”
The woman turned.
“No.”
Too fast.
The homeowner looked at the surveyor.
Then back at her.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because you looked nervous.”
“I am irritated.”
The homeowner shrugged.
“Okay.”
The woman picked up one of the temporary wooden stakes.
The surveyor immediately stepped forward.
“Please leave that.”
She held it.
“This is beside my driveway.”
“It is positioned on his side of the measured boundary.”
“I disagree.”
“That does not give you permission to remove survey markers.”
She pulled it free.
The homeowner stared.
“Put it back.”
“No.”
The surveyor took out his phone.
The woman noticed.
“Are you photographing me?”
“Yes.”
“Without permission?”
“Yes.”
The homeowner almost smiled.
The surveyor continued:
“I need a record that the temporary stake was disturbed after placement.”
The woman dropped it.
Not back into the hole.
Onto the grass.
“There.”
The surveyor photographed it.
Then calmly replaced the stake.
The woman stood motionless.
A neighbor across the street had appeared on his porch.
Another man farther down the driveway held a phone.
The blonde woman noticed.
Her expression changed.
She hated audiences.
The homeowner knew that about her.
When she thought people were watching, every disagreement became a question of status.
She walked toward her garage.
The homeowner assumed she was leaving.
She was not.
A minute later, she returned holding a green garden hose.
The homeowner stared.
“You cannot be serious.”
The woman twisted the nozzle.
A stream of water shot onto the asphalt.
The surveyor stepped backward.
“Ma’am.”
She aimed at the white line.
The water struck it.
Paint and dust began running toward the drainage strip.
The homeowner shouted:
“Stop.”
She kept spraying.
“There.”
The stream moved along the marking.
“Your fake property line is gone.”
The homeowner stepped toward her.
“You’re washing paint away.”
He pointed toward the surveyor.
“Not changing where my land ends.”
The woman smiled tightly.
“If there is no marker, you cannot prove anything.”
The surveyor looked at her in disbelief.
“That is not how property boundaries work.”
She kept spraying.
White paint thinned.
Mud formed along the edge of the driveway.
The neighbor across the street began openly recording.
The homeowner saw him.
Then looked back.
“Turn the hose off.”
“No.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I will not allow you to manufacture an encroachment claim.”
“You’re the one standing on a driveway that apparently crosses my lot.”