“That doesn't mean I’m stupid.”
“I did not say stupid.”
“You act like it.”
Sarah stood.
“This farm has enough problems without you starting boundary war.”
“I didn't start it.”
“You’re planting sticks on land he says is his.”
“Granddad says it isn’t.”
“A notebook is not deed.”
“There are measurements.”
“Measurements are not survey.”
“Then get survey.”
“With what money?”
That stopped him.
Sarah immediately regretted.
But truth had already entered room.
They were not wealthy.
Not even close.
The farm had survived because grandfather knew how to make one dollar behave like two.
After death, Sarah discovered how much invisible labor had been holding everything together.
Repairs done personally.
Seed negotiated.
Equipment traded.
Taxes timed.
Cash reserves thin.
Hiring a private surveyor for miles of irregular creek boundary could cost thousands.
If legal dispute followed, more.
Everett looked away.
Sarah softened.
“I'm not saying he’s right.”
“I’m saying we cannot decide from notebook.”
“Then county records.”
“Maybe.”
“Can we look?”
She rubbed forehead.
“I have work tomorrow.”
“I can go.”
“You have school.”
“Saturday.”
Sarah looked at her son.
His grandfather’s stubbornness lived so clearly in his face that it hurt.
“Saturday.”
He nodded.
“Until then, you stay on our side of current fence.”
Everett’s jaw tightened.
“Willows are on our side.”
“Current fence.”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Everett.”
He looked at plate.
“Fine.”
That night he did not sleep until almost midnight.
He kept thinking about Harold’s face when he mentioned stones.
Saturday morning, Sarah drove them to the Harmon County courthouse.
The records office occupied the first floor of an old brick building with a clock that had not displayed correct time since a lightning strike in 1998.
Everett had been there twice.
Once for school tour.
Once when grandfather took him to renew farm plates.
He remembered his grandfather complaining the entire drive home that young people trusted computers too much.
“Computers tell you what somebody typed,” he had said.
“Old paper tells you what somebody meant to preserve.”
At thirteen, Everett had rolled eyes.
Now he wished he had listened harder.
The county recorder was a woman named Mrs. Givens who had worked behind the same counter for thirty-four years.
She knew Sarah.
She knew Everett.
She knew grandfather.
When Sarah explained, she frowned.
“Which parcel?”
Sarah gave number.
Mrs. Givens typed.
Then disappeared into back room.
She returned with copies.
Deed.
Plat.
Tax map.
Everett spread them on counter.
The tax map showed Cole property ending close to creek.
Briggs property adjacent.
But map line was thick.
Too thick.
Everett measured with finger.
“This doesn't show exact.”
“No,” Mrs. Givens said.