He could never abide a wiggle.
Not a wriggle. Not a waver. Not the smallest bit of leeway.
Give an inch they’ll want a mile. He was one for nipping any jiggle in the bud.
Sure, the place was old, but it was built a-sturdy, and it stood the test of time. A war. A drought. A famine. Years could lend a touch of wrinkle, but that was no excuse for creaky hinges or a swinging that was anything but right.
Doors should no more need replacing than the people who had built them. Neither ought be done away with when they’re ripe.
So at the very start of wobbling, he cut a bar to measure, took the hammer and the odd-and-ends crate, and firmly nailed the wood across the geriatric slats.
Not unlike the way the surgeon had patched his hip and clinched his femur on to that.