Osric’s fever makes a map of his face.

You read him the roll. He croaks, “Sound, don’t guess. Pontage is timber. Staff was leaning. Bram counts. Pernell takes the storm. Hawte takes the pennies. You take the pole.”

It is a complete education in the time it takes a kettle to think about boiling.

Rain ticks the hut. Shoring may already be done; if it is, your hands can go to weather on the road. If it is not, the hole is still eating.

You set water by Osric’s hand. He drinks. The book closes on a wool-clip receipt if Col paid. Fever-maps fade a little when the river is being treated as a river. Outside, the bridge either hums better or still doesn’t. You will know with a pole, not a hope.