The western slope, Eleanor’s favorite part of the property, was unrecognizable.

A wide swath of the ancient canopy had been ripped away, leaving a jagged scar against the night sky.

Several mature white oaks lay toppled on their sides, their massive roots torn from the earth and reaching upward like broken fingers.

Deep, muddy ruts from heavy tires cut through the delicate forest floor.

An orange excavator and a yellow bulldozer sat parked in the center of the clearing, their metal buckets coated in fresh clay.

I crept closer, keeping to the shadows of the remaining trees.

A wooden surveyor’s stake was driven into the mud near a pile of shattered branches.

Stapled to the stake was a laminated permit inside a plastic sleeve.

I pulled my small penlight from my pocket and shielded the beam with my hand to read the print.

The document was an authorization for preliminary site clearing and grading.

At the bottom, in a sharp, elegant hand, was the signature of the authorizing landowner representative: *Celeste Vaughan*.

She had signed it three days ago, before the restraining order was even served.