I’d slept later than I meant to, but even so, the place was weirdly deserted. Even during fire drills, some laggard or three were always left behind, to be rousted out by the monitors and scolded about how they’d just been asphyxiated or burned to a crisp. Only another major crisis would turn every last soul out of bed.

More murder and mayhem? I hurried to the balcony to peer down into Main.

But the frenzy was an orderly one: what looked like every able-bodied Smith and Joe, carrying loads of materials in from outside—water-sodden wood beams, weathered planking, rusted steel—filling the hall with head-high stacks, only narrow aisles between. Aloft on the tellers’ desk like a captain on the poop deck, Rousseau directed traffic, pointing each load to a particular location. A group of lads milled at his feet, calling up to him. Either he was ignoring them, or he couldn’t hear with all the racket, but they didn’t look happy about it.

Den Search Central’s big table had been shoved up against the wall next to the mess hall doors, the only clear space left. Rubio and Irv huddled over some of the nautical charts I’d brought back from the marooned sloop. I flew down the stairs, ducking and weaving to keep from being mowed down by incoming construction materials.

Deep in discussion, Rubio and Irv ignored the chaos flowing around them like whitewater. Two fact geeks stoking each other’s excitement.

I had to shout to get their attention. “What’s going on?”

“East River.” Rubio lifted a chart to squint at it closely. “Oh, Glim. Glad you’re here. Do you know what this means?” He laid the chart down and poked at an upper corner.

“I asked, what’s all this?” I waved at the piles as a fat coil of rope skimmed past my ear on a beefy shoulder. Somewhere, an argument was brewing, loud enough to be heard.

Irv’s sparse beard looked newly trimmed. “It’s the walkway. Rousseau’s ordered it taken down as a security measure. Now the only entrance will be that shaft up from the boat dock. Easier to defend.”

“C’mon!” Rubio tapped the chart. “You’re the boat girl. Give us some help here.”

“Knowing how to row doesn’t mean I can read charts.”

“You knew what they were. C’mon, take a look!” His tapping got insistent. He looked feverish, his eyes red-rimmed from the strain of pretending he was fine. “Like, what do these wavy lines mean?”

I bent over the chart, to keep him from breaking a finger. To my surprise, I did know what the symbols meant. “Umm . . . tidal rip, or some other dangerous current thing.”

“NO!” Rousseau’s bellow rang across the hall. “And I won’t hear another word about it!”