He found it to the extreme left of the gats; a rusted bolt secured directly into the stone. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be a padlock attached to it. He manoeuvred the stick and gave the bolt an experimental push.
It didn’t budge.
He tried again, moving the stick the stick to catch the knob of the bolt and hopefully push it free. It was quite a feat, since this close to his eyeball the bar was just a big orange blob in the centre of his vision.
It still didn’t budge.
On the third try he managed to edge a loop of the rubber band over the bolt and push. His eyeball worked loose from the end of the stick and was catapulted off. Everything went green as it lodged in the bushes. It wasn’t even facing the right direction to be helpful. Dill dropped the stick in surprise.
“Oh for pity’s sake!” He gave the gate a hefty kick, dislodging a small rain of dust and rust that made him glad he didn’t inhale. He put his hands on the bars again and shook the metal. Did it move a fraction?
Another couple of kicks had it shaking until it was most assuredly looser. He kept at it, heedless of whether anyone heard to noise, alternately kicking the gate and shaking it until the bolt seemed finally able to slide free of its rusty sheath.
He reached through the bars and picked up the stick again. Purely by feel he probed the bolt, engaging it against the rubber band and pushing. With a combination of that and more bar-shaking, millimetre by millimetre the bolt came free, and he was finally able to push open the gate and step into the day.