A broad-shouldered man with a square jaw, close-cropped iron-gray hair, and rough gray stubble. His face looks practical and attentive, as if he is measuring a board while listening. His canvas coat hangs slightly crooked from years of being patched and re-buttoned; the cuffs are dark with sawdust and oil. He moves with a workman's economy, planting his feet before he turns. His teeth are noticeably blunt and uneven at the edges, and when he laughs he shows them without embarrassment. The unexpectedly cherished object in his work clothes is a tiny, neatly folded paper bird tucked behind his spectacles.

Denis is attentive and matter-of-fact, but not emotionally distant. With familiar workers he can be dryly funny and generous with his time; with officials he becomes literal, cautious, and difficult to hurry. He wants people to trust his judgment, yet dislikes being treated as the only person who can solve a problem. Under pressure he becomes more decisive, while afterward he can be stubbornly silent about the cost.

Denis grew up repairing fences and carts on a small farm, then spent most of his adult life as a village carpenter and work-crew foreman. He married Jeanne, a practical woman who kept the household running while he took jobs across the district; their son Étienne left for work before the occupation and has not sent a letter in months. The event that changed Denis came during the winter of 1940, when a roof collapsed under wet snow. He had insisted the beams would hold until morning. A neighbor was badly injured, and Denis has never again treated a warning sign as a matter for later. Under occupation, he has learned to make work assignments sound ordinary even when they quietly keep people out of danger. His present problem is a demand for timber and labor that will leave several local roofs exposed before the next rains. He is trying to delay the work without bringing punishment down on his crew.