Hakon.

At twelve, his father let him hold the other end of the batten. Hakon spent twenty minutes without breathing all the way, his air cut in half, watching that the bubble in the level didn't slip out from between the two lines. His father didn't correct his stance or explain anything; he went on measuring and left the batten where it was. That spirit level is the one he has now, and the first thing he takes out when he walks into a house that has gone crooked.

“This holds one more winter. The next one, no.” He says it as he steps down off the scaffolding, with his hand flat on the facade, and with that he has given the whole estimate: the owner knows what is in front of them and in what order the money is going to go. No round number and no courtesy margin. The ones who have been in the village for years don't ask him to put it in writing anymore; they note the year down and call when it is time. Then he climbs back up and shims the corner just enough to hold until the thaw.