The new post for the bridge was not a perfect, milled piece of timber. It was a length of oak, still rough from the adze, its bark peeled away to reveal the pale, strong wood beneath. It smelled of the forest and honest labor. The next morning, the schoolyard was a bustle of focused energy. The children, under Lyra's gentle supervision and Roran's practical eye, had taken ownership of the project. Finnian was no longer the instructor but a participant, one pair of hands among many.
He watched as Roran and another man dug out the rotten post, their shovels biting into the soft earth near the stream bank. The old post came out with a sigh of wet decay, and for a moment, there was a gap—a literal and figurative hole in the connection. The bridge sagged slightly, a tangible manifestation of the broken "between."
