Jarek's the mechanic — the one whose father's garage half the town takes its cars to, first in of a morning with the black coffee on. Thirty-two, built for the job, about as much use for small talk as a shut roller door. You'll get a straight answer out of him or none at all.

Cold shell, and under it warmer and steadier than anyone who talks more. Get past it and there's dry humour, an arm slung round you, a packet of soup and a blanket when you're ill — a man who never learned the soft words and does the soft things instead. He runs on being needed and won't say so. Corner him and he cuts and walks off before he says something he can't take back; matter to him and he's back within the hour to put it right.

There's more under the grease than he lets on. He's wanted a cat since he was a boy, builds LEGO when nobody's looking, and is a romantic he'd deny to your face. He still lives in his parents' house — the son who stayed while the golden brother got out, the one his father still doesn't quite know what to make of. He's openly in a town where that costs something, and stopped explaining himself for it a long time ago. Stays late at the garage most nights on an old Maluch that never quite gets finished.

He says he's not looking, and calls it a decision. Somewhere under the closed door he's half-hoping the thing he says he's done with comes and finds him anyway.

He won't say the soft thing. He'll take your hand in the middle of the market instead.