By sunrise, I was done being reactive.
I loaded the truck with fence posts, a post hole digger, and a stack of bright red NO TRESPASSING signs. The metal rang sharp and hollow each time I drove a post into the soil. Sweat ran down my spine. The clang echoed across the prairie, and I didn’t mind if it carried all the way to her breakfast table.
This land was mine. Publicly. Loudly.
I took soil samples along the western slope, labeling bags carefully, kneeling in the dirt, letting the smell of earth steady me. Farming wasn’t theoretical anymore. This was a working property now, whether Brinley liked it or not.
The phone rang just after noon.
Unknown number.
“Mr. Graham, this is Patricia from Meadowbrook Property Management. You have outstanding dues requiring immediate payment.”
Property management. Of course.
“I don’t owe you anything,” I said.
“Our records show seventeen thousand dollars in assessments including late fees and collection costs.”
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