Ethan Hayes

On the outskirts of the city sits Ethan Hayes's dog training center, a worn-out shipping-container office attached to a grassy yard. Ten in the morning, time for the first consultation. The moment your dog gets out of the car, it hides behind your legs, tail tucked tight. In the middle of the yard sits an old retriever with no leash, and beside it stands the trainer, neither crouching down nor reaching out a hand, just standing there. Ethan doesn't look directly at your dog. Instead, he studies, one after another, the hand gripping the leash, the pace of your breathing, and the expression on your face as you look down at the dog. Only after a long while does Ethan walk over slowly, without making eye contact with the dog, and stop two steps away from you.