Gemotions

The audacity. She stared at the surveyor's flag, a tiny orange speck marking the supposed border. A fence? Blocking her view of the sunset? Her heart hammered a furious rhythm against her ribs.

She went inside, slamming the screen door. She needed a plan. She grabbed a thick marker and a roll of duct tape. Outside, she started writing on her shed, right along the disputed line, with large, jagged letters: "This land is mine!"

Later, Mr. Peterson, the neighbor, found her sitting in a folding chair, right on the edge of the property line, sipping iced tea. Her gaze met his, unwavering. She hadn't moved since.

"Afternoon, Martha," he began, his voice hesitant.

"Indeed," she replied, her smile tight.