I arrive late at a Detroit dinner on a hot October morning in 2011. I’m here to meet an urban explorer who takes photographs of the city’s abandoned buildings. Trusting in the flimsiest of arrangements, all made via email, I’ve come to Detroit from Australia to meet this guy, who goes only by the name of DetroitUrbex. I don’t know his real name, or if he works alone, or even if ‘he’ is a he. I only know that he takes remarkable photographs of an increasingly emptied city, photos that have compelled me to learn more about him and Detroit. I’m not a journalist, and I’ve never interviewed anyone before. But I want to write a story about this guy. At the very least I want to meet him.

I’m usually unfashionably early for appointments, but this morning I’m running twenty minutes late. I don’t have DetroitUrbex’s number, so I’m relieved to spot the sign for the diner, Duly’s. As I swing open the door and step inside, five men turn to face me. I’ve accidentally walked into the Mexican barbershop next door to Duly’s.