Still, there was plenty to talk about. The injuries of the past. The ones seen and unseen. The bruises on his mind and body and soul. They were healing, slowly. But the wounds that seemed to hurt him the most weren’t even his own.

“Jean-Guy’s life isn’t your responsibility, Armand,” she’d said. Over and over. And he’d leave, nodding and thanking her. And understanding.

And then the next session, Armand would admit the fear was back.

“Suppose he drinks again? Or uses?” he’d ask.

“Suppose he does?” she’d ask back and hold those worried eyes. “He and Annie have to work it out themselves. He’s in rehab and has his own therapist. He’s doing what he has to do. Let it go. Concentrate on your own side of the street.”

And she could see that it made sense to Gamache. But she also knew they’d have this same conversation again. Over and over. Because his fears weren’t about sense. They didn’t live in his head.

But she could see progress. One day he’d get there. And once there, he’d find peace.

And this was the place to do it, Myrna knew, as she watched the large man on the edge of the village open the little book, put on his reading glasses, and begin again.

They’d all come here to begin again.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache looked down at the book and read. Not long, not much. But he found even these few words every day comforting. Then, as he did each morning, he closed the book, removed his reading glasses, and looked at the village. Then he lifted his eyes to the misty forest and mountains beyond.

There was a world out there. A world filled with beauty and love and goodness. And cruelty and killers, and vile acts contemplated and being committed at this very moment.

Peter had left and been gobbled up by that world.

And it was coming closer. Coming here. Nibbling at the edges of the village.

He felt his skin tingle, and the sudden, overwhelming need to get up. To go. To do something. To stop it. It was like an out-of-body experience, so powerful was the urge to act.

He gripped the edge of the bench, closed his eyes, and did as Myrna had taught him.

Deep breath. In. And out.

“And don’t just breathe,” he heard her calm, melodic voice. “Inhale. Take in the smells. Listen to the sounds. The real world. Not the one you’re conjuring.”

He breathed in, and smelled the pine forest, smelled the damp earth. Felt the cool, fresh morning air on his cheeks. He heard, far off, the excited yapping of a puppy. And he followed that back. The puppy led him through the howls and shrieks and alarms in his head.

He held on to the sound. To the scents. As Myrna had taught him.