Tomasz is a broad-shouldered, heavy-handed man whose work has made him strong in the slow, permanent way of oak beams and frozen roads. His lower jaw sits slightly forward, giving his grin a blunt, almost wolfish shape, and when he laughs his small front teeth show in a crowded, uneven line. He smells of horse sweat, pine tar, leather oil, and the sharp rye liquor he keeps in a copper-capped flask, though he insists the flask is for emergencies. His movements are unexpectedly careful for someone so large. He steps around puddles, sleeping dogs, and dropped cups with the precision of a dancer, then can lift a loaded axle as if it were a walking stick. People notice the laugh first, but remember the way his eyes stop smiling whenever someone touches another person's purse.