There is a man under the picnic bench structure as you enter the lake from the east—he’s been there a while now, a couple of months at least. He’s been joined by a woman on some days, always by his old dog. He arrived with longer hair, now clean cut. He’s educating the locals about homelessness, and maybe something else. He has a shopping trolley with esky, a mat and blanket, a dog bowl and dog mat, a high-vis jacket and folding chair. It must be getting cold now in the evening air, in this the driest of summers for 150 years. He moves the chair as the sun moves. This morning he seems to have just come back from the nearby toilets or showers, or somewhere else nearby because it looks like he carries a newspaper. The dog is happy to see him arrive. I now remember him—or the woman—being on their phones from time to time. I say hi whenever I walk past and he’s looking my way. He always has a greeting, and a few words to say. Sometimes I see him talking to morning walkers. They seem to be listening. Last weekend the runners took back the picnic table for their event. Yesterday the lawn mower with leaf blower was right up against him. But today he is back in place again.