“She said the association had maintenance rights.”
“It doesn’t.”
Carol looked toward the ridge.
“Then why did we vote on it?”
“That’s a good question.”
That night, I stopped assuming common sense would protect anything.
I checked the cameras covering the shop.
One faced the driveway.
One faced the equipment yard.
Two covered the western boundary from different angles.
I verified the storage.
Then I walked the tree line with my phone.
I photographed every trunk.
Every survey pin.
Every visible boundary marker.
I took wide shots showing the trees in relation to my shop and the Silver Ridge fence.
I measured distances from the recorded corners.
I scanned Neil Parker’s arborist report and saved it locally, on cloud storage, and with Paul.
Then I pulled my most recent professional survey out of the safe.
It felt paranoid.
Twelve days later, it felt like preparation.
The next Silver Ridge board meeting happened on a Thursday evening.
Martin invited me.
When I walked into the clubhouse, Vanessa stopped speaking.
“This is a members-only meeting.”
Martin sat near the center of the table.
“I invited Jack for the boundary discussion.”
“You invited him?”
“Yes.”
“Without asking me?”
Martin adjusted his glasses.
“I’m treasurer, Vanessa. Not your assistant.”
Several residents laughed.
Vanessa did not.
When the tree issue came up, she connected a laptop to the projector.
A map appeared.
A strip along the western edge of my land had been shaded pale green.
Above it were the words: