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I press an iron strap over both and guide a nail through its first opening. Bran hammers it into place using the flat side of his hatchet.

A baby cries in the waiting line. Someone farther back coughs. The wind pushes snow into the open housing faster than I can brush it away.

A man near the well stamps his feet. “How long?”

“As long as it takes,” Bran says.

“My children have had no water since dawn.”

“Neither have mine.”

The man lowers his gaze.

Bran drives the second nail. I secure another strap across the first, forming a crude cross around the brace. We bind both with wet leather. When the strips freeze, they will contract around the repair and hold the wood in position.

It is not elegant. It may not survive the next thaw.

It only needs to last until the smith returns.

“What about the handle?” Bran asks.

The iron bar cannot be repaired without a forge. Its narrow end has broken where it entered the guide.

I examine the remaining socket.

“A wooden lever.”

“It will split.”

“Not if we reinforce the end.”

Bran looks toward the diminished firewood pile. “Another piece?”

“One too knotted to burn cleanly.”

“Waste nothing.”

“That sounds familiar.”

We choose a narrow length of tiphe. Bran cuts it while I soften another strip of leather inside my coat. We shave one end of the wood until it fits the socket, then wind the leather tightly around the section that will bear against metal.

The support needs an iron sleeve.

I examine the pieces from the bag and select a damaged hinge. Its plate is thin enough to bend. Bran holds it against the well housing while I strike it with the hatchet, folding the metal around the wooden lever.

My fingers slip.

The blade clips my left knuckle. Pain flashes through my hand.

Bran catches my wrist. “Enough.”

“It barely broke the skin.”

Blood wells along the cut.

“You cannot heal Lowtown if you lose a finger to its well.”

“I have nine others.”