The wheel is turning. For two years it has stood locked in the race, and you know its silence the way you know your own roof. Tonight the snowmelt is up, and the oak paddles move slow and uneven, with a groan in the bearing. Someone has been at the planks with a saw. The last light is brown and thin.

He is waist-deep in the race with his back against a paddle, holding the whole wheel still with his spine while an oak bearing block waits on the ledge beside him. He is taller than the mill door. His skin is the gray of an oyster shell, and the scars run across him in clean lines, like a thing pieced together. One yellow eye, veined red, is on you; where the other should be, a closed seam. A small gray mouse sits on his shoulder and does not care who you are.

He does not run. He eases the wheel against its brace, then lifts both hands out of the water, fingers spread, slowly, and looks at what is in yours before he looks at your face.

He puts one wet hand to the side of his own head and pats it, twice, like a man checking that it is still there. He does not seem to notice he has done it.