The neighbor whistled.
The blonde woman stared.
The surveyor walked farther down.
“Thirty-two here.”
Then near the street.
“Thirty-eight.”
The homeowner looked at the driveway.
Approximately three feet of it.
Not one crack.
Not one decorative edge.
A long tapered section.
The blonde woman whispered:
“That’s impossible.”
The surveyor looked at the monument.
“No.”
“It’s inconvenient.”
“But it isn’t impossible.”
The neighbor raised his phone slightly.
She saw.
“Stop recording.”
He said:
“No.”
Her face reddened.
“This is private.”
The homeowner answered:
“You were spraying a survey line in front of everyone.”
She turned toward him.
“I was defending my property.”
The surveyor corrected her.
“You were washing temporary paint off his.”
Silence.
That sentence landed harder than anything else.
The blonde woman looked toward the wet mud.
The water she used to erase the evidence had uncovered better evidence.
Not paint.
Not a temporary stake.
Not a paid opinion.
A brass monument placed before any of them owned the houses.
The homeowner looked at her.
“You should probably call a surveyor.”
She stared.
For the first time that morning, she did not answer.
The county surveyor documented the monument.
Photographs.
Measurements.
Coordinates.
He marked the area with protective flagging.
Then he looked at the homeowner.
“I’m going to recommend you do not disturb this.”
“Obviously.”
The surveyor looked toward the blonde woman.
“That applies to everyone.”
She frowned.
“I heard you.”
The homeowner asked:
“What does this mean for my fence?”
“You can build on your property.”
“Subject to permits and whatever private restrictions legitimately apply.”
The surveyor looked toward the driveway.
“But I would not build immediately beside that pavement until you decide how you want to address the encroachment.”
The homeowner sighed.
That was the part he had hoped to avoid.
He wanted privacy.
Now he had a property dispute.
The blonde woman closed the hose nozzle.
She stood beside the muddy strip staring at the monument.
Then asked quietly:
“When will your report be ready?”
The surveyor looked at her.
“My client receives it first.”
“I need a copy.”
“You can ask him.”
She looked toward the homeowner.
He waited.
She clearly hated needing his permission.
Finally:
“Will you provide it?”
“Yes.”
Her eyebrows rose.
He continued:
“I’m not trying to hide anything.”
That sentence embarrassed her.
She looked away.
The surveyor packed his equipment.
Before leaving, he said:
“If you obtain another licensed survey, give your surveyor my information.”
“I’ll share my field notes.”
The blonde woman asked:
“You’re willing to let someone check your work?”
“Of course.”
She looked genuinely confused.
The surveyor smiled.
“That’s how verification works.”
Then he left.
The homeowner remained beside the exposed monument.
So did the blonde woman.
Neither spoke.
Finally she said:
“My driveway was there when I bought the house.”
“I believe you.”