“People.”
That was the whole explanation.
The complaint had come from our new neighbor, Brent.
He built a large gray house on the old Swenson property the previous spring.
His back deck overlooked Dad’s fence.
Most mornings, I could see him standing there with a coffee cup, staring down at the rows of corn and vegetables.
He never seemed pleased.
The county inspector arrived Thursday.
He was young.
Polite.
Carried a clipboard.
“Mr. Lindqvist, I’m sorry,” he said. “Once somebody files a complaint, we’re required to investigate.”
Dad nodded.
“How long?”
“Thirty days.”
I was ready for a fight.
I already had the name of an attorney written on the back of an envelope in my purse.
And I was about ten seconds away from walking across the property line to tell Brent exactly what I thought of his complaint.
Dad did neither.
He simply held out his hand to the inspector.
