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Reine-Marie and Armand chose to take the first shift.

At the door Ruth made sure their heavy raincoats were well fastened. “You have your whistle, in case something happens?”

“I do,” said Reine-Marie.

“And your Boys’ Big Book of Flooding?”

“Always,” said Armand.

“Then we’ll be fine,” said the old poet.

“Fucked up,” said Gabri.

“Insecure,” said Olivier.

“Neurotic,” said Clara.

“And egotistical, yeah, yeah,” said Ruth. “Now, no necking, you two, and be home by midnight.”

“Yes, Mom.”

As the rain and ice pellets hit her face, Reine-Marie called to Armand, “Heck of a date.”

Inside, a discussion had begun around the fireplace. What to take, if an evacuation order was given.

“I’d take Gabri,” said Olivier.

“I’d take the espresso machine,” said Gabri. “And some croissants.”

At the bridge they stood, backs to the wind, shoulders hunched, hoods raised. Reine-Marie put on her flashlight and pointed it into the Bella Bella.

“It’s rising,” she shouted.

“Oui.”

“I’d take my Jehane Benoît cookbook,” said Myrna. “The photo album. The Lalique vase. That hand-knotted Indian rug—”

“Hold on,” said Gabri. “Do you have a moving van? Can we use some of it? I’d take my grandfather’s Victorian sofa.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Olivier. “The only good thing about a flood wiping out our entire lives is that it’d take that monstrosity with it.”

Armand and Reine-Marie walked over the stone bridge. And back again. Over and back. Pausing every couple of minutes to switch on the powerful flashlight and check the level of the Rivière Bella Bella.

Then continue on.

Like guards on a lonely frontier.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Armand could barely hear his own thoughts for the sound of the water rushing below and the ice pellets hitting his coat.

What he thought about, as he walked back and forth, back and forth, was Vivienne. Out there somewhere. And Vivienne’s father. And Annie.

He tried to keep their daughter out of it, knowing how dangerous it was to personalize investigations. But perhaps his resistance was lowered by the cold, by the competing stresses, by incipient exhaustion, but he couldn’t seem to stop putting himself in Monsieur Godin’s place.

Suppose Annie were missing? And everyone he turned to for help, while nice, didn’t actually help? If he pleaded with them, begged them, and all they did was smile and offer soup?

It would be a nightmare. He’d be mad with worry.