"Raising thieves young, are we?" My neighbor's tree drops its apples in our yard, yet he made two small children return every single one — I was ready to march over there, but my husband had a smarter way to teach him a lesson.

Rob filed at nine-fifteen on Thursday morning.

He called me from the parking lot of the county building.

"It's in," he said.

"Full formal filing.

Encroachment complaint, documented neighbor dispute, supporting evidence attached."

"What did they say when you handed it over?"

"The woman at the desk looked at the folder and asked if I had more than one incident to report.

I said I had fourteen documented incidents across three households and a recorded verbal threat." He paused.

"She asked me to wait and went to get her supervisor."

"Rob."

"The supervisor wants a meeting.

Next Tuesday.

She said to bring everything."

I sat down on the porch step.

"Did you tell them about Frank and Carol?"

"I told them we had two additional families prepared to provide statements.

Frank already sent his last night.

Carol is sending hers today." He stopped.

"There's one more thing."

"What?"

"While I was in the waiting room, I looked up Dale's property record.

Just to confirm the survey line before the meeting." A pause.

"The branch isn't the only encroachment.

His fence on the north side — our side — is eight inches over the legal property line.

Has been since he put it up."

I looked at the fence from where I was sitting.

The solid wood panels.

The posts sunk deep into the ground.

"How long ago did he put it up?"

"Permit was pulled in 2004."

Twenty years.

"Does he know?"

"He had a surveyor out in 2019.

I found the permit record.

So yes.

He knows."

I was quiet for a moment.

"He knows his fence is over our line, he's been collecting apples that legally belong to us for nine years, and he still stood at that fence and called our children thieves."

"Yes," Rob said.

A car pulled up across the street.

I watched it without really seeing it.

"Rob, what happens if he finds out about the filing before Tuesday?"

"He might already know.

These things aren't always private at the inquiry stage." His voice was steady.

"If he comes to you, don't engage.

Record it and walk away."

"And if he goes to the neighbors first?"

"Patty is talking to the Hendersons this afternoon.

She knows them better than we do.

She's going to tell them what's in the notebook."

I exhaled.

"Okay."

"We're ahead of him," Rob said.

"For the first time, we're ahead of him."

I looked at the yard.

The swing set.

The flower bed where Maya had knelt and gathered apples with her small hands and carried them, four trips, to a man who took them without a word of thanks and called her a thief.

"Tuesday," I said.

"Tuesday," he said.

"And in the meantime — don't rake his apples."

For the first time in days, I almost smiled.

Then the front door opened behind me and Leo stepped out, still in his pajamas, hair flat on one side.

He looked at the yard.

Then at the fence.

"Mom," he said.