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His expression asks whether I should promise what we may not be able to provide.

I return my attention to the pump. The promise gives us another reason to succeed.

Bran finishes the brace. I fit it beside the split support and test the angle.

“Too wide at the top,” I say.

He trims it.

“Now?”

“Still wide.”

He trims it again.

“If you make me shave this into kindling, I am charging you.”

“If you make it fit poorly, the pump will break twice.”

He offers me the hatchet. “Your turn.”

I narrow the upper edge with short, careful cuts. My fingers have grown stiff enough to slow me. The tiphe brace finally slides into place against the damaged support.

The twisted lifting arm remains a problem.

Bran plants his boots and grips the metal. I wrap leather around the opposite end to protect my hands.

“On three,” I say.

“You always pull on two.”

“That happened once.”

“Three times.”

“One.”

He sets his weight.

“Two.”

We pull.

The iron shifts with a grinding protest. Bran’s boot slides, but he keeps hold of the arm. My shoulder burns from the strain.

I reposition the leather.

“Again.”

We bend the metal closer to its original angle.

Bran studies it. “Close enough.”

“No.”

“Of course not.”

We pull once more. The lifting arm settles into line with the new wooden brace.