I closed the gate that had been made in the picket fence once I had passed through it, making sure that I left it exactly as I had found it. I didn’t want anyone to complain about the fact that I had gone somewhere where I hadn’t been supposed to—firstly, they wouldn’t be able to complain if they didn’t know where I went, because I wouldn’t leave a trail.
As new and inexperienced as I was when it came to any investigative reporting, I had seen more than enough television programs to know that where there was an almost concealed door—in this case, it was the picket fence gate—there was a story. No one put so much effort into concealing something that they didn’t mind being found. And me being me—me already being outside even though I knew that I wasn’t supposed to be—I had gone through th
