He drove Noah to school. The boy climbed out with his backpack dragging and announced that he would not turn around at the door because fourth graders were too old for that. Daniel said he understood. He waited until Noah disappeared inside, then looked back at the entrance on behalf of both of them before pulling into traffic.
The road to Whitfield Hollow ran from modest neighborhoods into streets with low stone walls and carefully planned trees. At one intersection Daniel stopped beside a landscape truck carrying mature shrubs wrapped in burlap, each shrub probably worth more than his entire load of fence materials. He followed directions through a gate framed by brick columns, noticing the stonework before the security cameras. The driveway was long and clean, the grass cut into flawless bands, and the house beyond it had so many windows that Daniel wondered how anyone found privacy inside.
The fence was worse than the caller had described. A thirty-foot section had sagged toward the road, three posts leaning at angles that did not belong in any competent installation. The mesh had folded against itself where the truck struck, but two concrete footings showed old cracks with dirt packed into them. One post had been secured with bright plastic ties, a cosmetic gesture that pulled the surrounding wire out of alignment and transferred stress to the next section.
Daniel took photographs before touching anything. He placed a tape measure along the damaged run, checked the grade, and pressed a thumb into the wood near the base of the middle post. His thumb sank farther than healthy lumber should permit. He scraped away a thin layer and found discoloration that had been spreading long before the truck reached the corner.
"You're not the man I called," said a voice behind him. Daniel finished recording the measurement before he stood. A woman in her mid-forties was approaching across the gravel, carrying a phone and wearing a charcoal blazer that made the pale morning look underdressed. She had beautiful, tired eyes and the disciplined posture of someone who had learned to convert exhaustion into an item on a schedule.
"Marcus referred the job," Daniel explained. "He's booked on a municipal contract and thought I could help." Catherine studied him, taking in the work boots, stained gloves, and older pickup truck without quite concealing her disappointment. "I asked specifically for Marcus," she said. Daniel nodded and replied that she was free to hire someone else if she preferred, but she might want to hear what he had found before paying another inspection fee.
That stopped her. She asked what he had found, and he led her to the middle post, showing her the softened base without touching her or guiding her hand. "The impact damaged the mesh and shifted the line," he said. "But the post rot was already here. If you replace only what the truck hit, the next storm could pull the whole section down again." Catherine looked at the damaged wood, then back at him, as though she had not expected the first useful answer of the week to arrive in work gloves.