The call came just after lunch. Grandma Harriet’s voice trembled. “Ellis, they’re digging into the hill. Part of it’s our land.” For forty years, the ridge had been theirs—oak tree, stone steps, Harriet’s garden. Now bulldozers had carved a switchback driveway across it. Clarence, my grandpa, asked the excavator for a plot map. The man only shrugged. When Clarence called...