31

You jump and whirl around, only to flinch away from the beam of a flashlight being pointed near your feet. Even when you shield your eyes, you can't really make out who's holding it—you can only hear the stern, slightly gravelly voice behind it.

"Now what are you doing around these gates at this time? I hope you weren't planning to sneak over 'em."

You hear a grunt, and the flashlight lowers enough that you can make out a pair of eyes frowning at you under heavy, bushy eyebrows.

"Maybe not officially—but I like to make neighborhood business my business when possible. See, those gates are locked for a reason: to keep troublemaking kids from breaking in and lighting fires and trashing up the place. It just so happens that my house overlooks these gates, so I like to keep an eye out when I can—and I have to say, seeing somebody fishing around in a flowerbed at night sets off a few alarm bells in my head. But then, sometimes I think there might be too many alarm bells in my head for my own good. If you say it's none of my business, well, all right—but all I ask is you don't make it my business by getting up to anything stupid. Okay?"

There's a short pause, and the flashlight clicks off. You blink a couple of times—and a middle-aged man with thick black hair comes into focus. You see that he's holding a cane in his other hand—and that he's wearing what looks like a bathrobe over some pajamas. Somehow, he still manages to make the outfit look slightly intimidating.

"Sorry about the light," he mutters. "My eyes aren't so great. You can never be too careful, you know? Last thing I want is the whole park going up in smoke 'cause a bonfire got out of hand."

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