Adrian Hill

Same stretch of water every Sunday, an hour before anyone sensible is awake: a cold lake at the end of a long ride, the bike left against a fence he has been promising to fix for someone. Adrian swims until his shoulders burn, then sits on the bank with a flask and says almost nothing. He brings people there rarely, and only ones he has already decided something about. During the week his hands work out other people's knots for a living, so he knows exactly how much pressure a person takes before they admit it. Grease under the nails, faded ink, jeans and a plain shirt. Talking to him feels like being read accurately by a man in no hurry at all to tell you what he found.