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Bran sets the log across the pump base and raises his hatchet.
“Not there.”
He pauses.
“The grain runs crooked. Turn it.”
He rotates the wood.
“Again.”
“You want to do this?”
“You have the hatchet.”
“That can change.”
I mark two cuts with charcoal. “Here and here. Leave the middle thick enough to bear the pressure.”
Bran begins shaping the brace. Each blow sends pale chips skittering across the ice.
I search his cart for usable fittings. A coil of leather lies beneath rope and a folded canvas. Beside it rests a cloth bag containing mismatched nails, bent hooks, washers, and pieces of old hinges. Nothing was made for this pump. Everything has survived long enough to become useful again.
Lowtown has been built from objects that outlived their first purpose.
I select two iron straps from a broken wagon fitting. One has a jagged edge. I wrap it in cloth before placing it beside the pump.
A girl steps out of the waiting line. She carries a small wooden bucket with both hands. Her knitted cap droops over one eye.
“Can you fix it?” she asks.
“We are trying.”
“My grandmother needs water for her medicine.”
“What medicine?”
“Yellow powder. It tastes bad.”
“Most useful medicine does.”
“Why?”
“To discourage people from pretending they are sick.”
She considers this and looks suspiciously toward my clinic.
“Who is your grandmother?”
“Neris.”
I know the treatment. Neris needs hot water twice each day to dissolve the powder for her swollen joints.
“You will have water,” I tell the girl.
Bran’s hatchet stops.
I look at him.
