Others asked for records.
She replied selectively.
“County maps don’t tell the whole story.”
“Older residents know the truth.”
“My family has documentation.”
The homeowner read everything.
Then closed the app.
He did not reply.
His silence frustrated her.
He could tell because she posted again the next day.
This time about “bullying.”
Then “legal intimidation.”
Then “people with money using government systems against ordinary families.”
The homeowner was not wealthy.
He had saved for years to buy the property.
He had built his own workshop.
He repaired his own equipment.
He drove an aging pickup.
But facts were becoming less important than narrative.
So he kept collecting.
The day before the survey, the Neighbor Woman appeared again.
She held papers.
“You should cancel tomorrow.”
“No.”
“I’m warning you.”
The homeowner set down the shovel.
“About what?”
“If your surveyor damages anything, I’ll sue.”
“They’re placing markers.”
“On my property.”
“Then tell them that.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
The homeowner looked toward the new fence.
Then toward the official orange stake still visible beside it.
“Bring those papers too.”
She shook them.
“I was planning to.”
“Perfect.”
The homeowner returned to work.
She did not leave.
“You’re very smug.”
He looked at her.
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m tired.”
“Of what?”
“This.”
He gestured between them.
“You built a fence through my garden, then spent two weeks pretending I’m the aggressor.”
Her face flushed.
“You planted on my land first.”
The homeowner nodded slowly.
“Say that tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
He picked up the shovel again.
The Neighbor Woman stepped closer to the fence.
“You think some county man with a truck is going to scare me?”
“No.”
The homeowner looked at her.
“I think measurements might.”
She left.
The survey truck arrived at 9:06 the next morning.
White pickup.
Amber roof lights.
County-style markings from the private licensed surveying company.
Two surveyors stepped out.
One older.
One younger.
Tripod.
Electronic equipment.
Maps.
The Neighbor Woman appeared almost immediately.
Pink floral blouse.
White pants.
Papers in hand.
Exactly as if she had been waiting behind the window.
The homeowner stood inside the garden wearing a white sleeveless shirt, old jeans, work gloves, and muddy boots.
He held a shovel because he had been working before they arrived.
The older Surveyor introduced himself.
The homeowner showed documents.
The Neighbor Woman interrupted before he finished.
“You need to see mine.”
The Surveyor turned politely.
“Are you the adjoining owner?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a recorded survey?”
“I have historic documents.”
“Recorded?”
She hesitated.
“These are older.”
The Surveyor held out his hand.
She gave him copies.
He looked.
The homeowner watched.
The Surveyor’s expression remained neutral.