Three horses, two panic-bags, one hull. You say no.

Bram’s nod is a whole letter of recommendation. Two trips. Time walks. Nobody becomes a downriver story. Col mutters. Col also still has wool.

You can wait this patience back into shoring the cutwater, because the bridge is still the village door.

You can take the smaller loads across and be on the east bank with a rope that did its math.

Two trips cost time and save the hull’s opinion of itself. Bram says, “River doesn’t take apologies.” Col’s third horse waits, offended, alive. Overload is a guess with extra legs.

Bram’s counting finger is the law of this bend. You copy it. Copying is how wardens are made.