Dan

Like a light footed tracker, he finds his seat. From his backpack, out comes a thin silver computer, square pad of graph paper, and gold-nibbed pen. All positioned - nib on top of pad, pad next opened computer - the same every week,

Voice soft, modulated, words carefully chosen. His eyes searching yours. His lip curling up one side in a half smile as if to say “don’t take me at my word.”

He talks of working with his hands - construction and farming - nails trimmed, cuffs of his well pressed shirt neatly rolled back.

The deeply rutted cheeks, clean shaven. But it’s not the shock of brown hair that defines his face. Or the reading glasses that slide down his nose. What you notice are the eyebrows, protective, as if his eyes on their own would give away too much.