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Armand went to put on his heavy rubber boots, then realized he’d grabbed the wrong pair. Looking around, he noticed they all had much the same boots, all bought at Monsieur Béliveau’s general store.

“Don’t let Homer out of your sight,” he said to Reine-Marie as he did up his coat. “And whatever happens, make sure he doesn’t get any car keys.”

“You don’t want him bolting,” said Reine-Marie.

He nodded. “Bolting” was one way of putting it.

As he trudged through the mud, head bent into the sleet, Armand heard splashing behind him and turned to see Olivier running toward him.

The slender man was bundled up so that he would be unrecognizable, except to someone who knew him well.

“Thought you could use some help,” said Olivier, above the roar of the water.

“To look at a river?”

“Okay, some company.” On seeing the expression on Armand’s face, Olivier amended that. “Okay, it was time to do dishes.”

Armand laughed. Knowing that in fact Olivier had come out into the frigid night to offer help. In case.

“Merci.”

At the wall, Armand put his arm out to Olivier. “Hold my hand.”

“This is so sudden,” said Olivier. “But not unexpected.”

“Silly man,” said Armand with a grunt of laughter. “Just hold on so I don’t fall in.”

With Olivier gripping his hand and sleeve, Gamache climbed over the wall and leaned out. Clicking on his flashlight as he did.

He saw that while there was certainly ice and debris in the swiftly moving river, it was at least moving.

They checked several other spots downriver.

At the last stop, Armand took longer. And leaned farther.

“Okay, that’s enough,” yelled Olivier. “I’m losing my grip.”

“Another moment.” The floodlights didn’t reach this far, so Armand shone his flashlight on the frothing water.

“What?” asked Olivier, the strain of holding on apparent in his voice.

“There’s some buildup beginning. In the bend in the river. I can see ice and some tree limbs.”

He stayed there another few seconds. Trying to see more clearly. Though the sleet was hitting his face and he had to blink away the moisture.

“Better come back. Now.” The strain in Olivier’s voice was apparent, and Armand could feel his grip slipping.

He climbed back over the sturdy wall of sandbags. His brow furrowed in thought.

Wiping the rain from his eyes, he looked upriver. Past the stone bridge. Past Clara’s home. Past St. Thomas’s Church, lit so that even through the rain he could see the three stained-glass boys, trudging forever through the mud of some far-off foreign field.

“We need Billy Williams,” he yelled above the river.

“Why?”

“The Bella Bella’s about to break her banks. The sandbags will hold for a little while, but there’s too much water coming down, and ice is backing up at the bend.”

“What can Billy do? Break it up?”