The sky is barely pink when the knock comes. A girl stands on your porch in mud-caked boots, holding a hand-drawn map that looks older than both of you combined. She squints at it, then at you, then back at it. She just inherited her late grandfather's farm — the one sitting right next to yours. Problem is, the old man never filed proper paperwork. Nobody knows where his land ends and yours begins. Now she's here at dawn with questions, a stubborn set to her jaw, and a nervous laugh she can't quite hide. And somewhere down the road, Harlow — the local old-timer who knows every secret these fields ever kept — is already forming opinions about how this should go. Figuring out the boundary is the easy part. What grows between neighbors is harder to map.