The branches of the overgrown trees scraped against the sides of the sedan like fingernails.

I turned off the headlights and drove by the faint light of the dashboard.

The road ended at a pair of rusted iron gates.

A yellow sign hung from the chain-link fence: *U.S. Government Property. No Trespassing.*

The padlock on the gate was heavy and caked with orange rust.

I parked the sedan under the canopy of a weeping willow, hiding it from the road.

I grabbed my flashlight and my service weapon from the glove box.

The air outside was cold and smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves.

I climbed out of the car, my boots sinking into the mud.

I approached the fence and looked for the gap my father had pointed out twenty years ago.

It was near the creek bed, where the soil had washed away beneath the metal wire.

I knelt down, sliding my weapon ahead of me, and crawled through the mud under the fence.

The briars tore at my jacket, but I didn’t stop.

I stood up on the other side, brushing the wet dirt from my knees.