rough against my palms, cool despite the afternoon heat. For a moment, kneeling there with red dirt on my jeans and sweat running down my back, I felt my grandfather beside me so strongly I almost turned my head.
A boundary is a promise.
I set the stone, tested it, and stood.
South of the fence, Tom Bowers waved from his pasture. North of it, my spring kept running. The ridge was quiet. The grass moved in the wind. Nothing dramatic happened. No court, no lawyers, no engines, no shouting.
