The cargo rafts untied and raised canvas, one after another like a flock taking wing. Sailing a raft is tricky even for a tight helmsman, and these weren’t even square-rigged. A mast and a boom for a standard triangular sail was all there’d been materials for, plus the crudely pointed prow added to each raft to help cut through the waves. The rudder-and-tiller assemblies were so makeshift, I was ready to take bets on how many would survive the trip. Good thing the rafts were crew-only now. They’d need some serious sailing.

As the ersatz fleet lumbered around the corner onto 8th Street, Rousseau’s taxi dropped alongside Melville with the two funeral rafts in tow. Jandi scurried to help Daniel retie them to our stern.

“Your job to wrangle them,” Daniel told him. “Till it’s time.”

I didn’t know whether to stare or look away. That long, shrouded form, once my living friend and protector, now stretched out on a ragged pile of scrap wood and stinking of flammables. The closest I’d been to him since he died. The fabric was well-soaked, to make sure it would burn in the rain. It pressed against the outline of his face, his elbows, his knees. If I hauled on the tow rope, I could give him a goodbye hug. But we’d never been huggers.

He was . . . so still. Like the two much smaller mummy-wraps on the raft next door.

And so silent. Which in life, he never was.

The wind dropped suddenly, as if waiting. Rousseau handed over two swathed torches, like we used for signal flares. Never one to miss an opportunity, he cleared his throat.

“My greatest regret, among many, is that I will never be able to thank him for . . .”

All stiff and formal. I shifted my non-gaze. Begging my patience, Rousseau offered a look as sympathetic and remorseful as any we’d ever shared.

“. . . for all he was and did for us.” Then he just had to add, “Despite our differences.”

I looked away, like I’d got rain in my eyes.

“Come see me when we’re settled upriver. I hear you’re remembering now. I hope you’ll share what you’ve learned.”

His earnest interest caught me off guard. I nearly teared up. “Soon as you have time.”

“One thing more . . .” He slid two fingers into the pocket of his vest and drew out the flattened cylinder of a plastic lighter, the sort where you could dial up the flame. A rare item, always high on the picker list, though the ones you found were usually empty. You’d think with the gazillions made, there’d be more of them about. “Might come in handy.”

I gave him a nod of thanks. Sometimes the smallest gestures mean the most.