The kitchen smelled of yeast and butter. Samuel was at the counter wrapping something brown and round in parchment paper and tying it with twine. A second loaf cooled on a rack beside him.
Köhler stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the front hall.
He wore Reed’s overcoat, the navy wool one. It was a size too large at the shoulders. The leather bag he’d carried into the field office a week ago sat at his feet. He’d shaved. His eyes were still pale red around the rims, but they were dry.
“You made the ferry,” he said.
“We did.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Sore but manageable. The crutches are doing their job.”
He nodded once.
Vega came up through the hall behind him.
“Federal?” I asked.
“Eight minutes out,” Vega said.
Köhler exhaled.
Wiley reached out and hugged him. Köhler rested his face against the side of Wiley’s neck and closed his eyes. Neither of them spoke. After a beat, Wiley let go and stepped back.
“Eat what Samuel gives you,” Wiley said. “Don’t argue.”
“I won’t argue.”
“And when you can, write to me, wherever you are. A postcard. So I’ll know.”
Köhler nodded.
Samuel came around the counter with the wrapped loaf in both hands.
“Sourdough. The starter came from a friend of Wiley’s in Somerville. I fed it Monday. The bread will hold three days at room temperature, longer in a refrigerator.”
Köhler took the loaf.
“Bertrand,” he said.
“What?”
“Henry kept sourdough starter. He called it Bertrand.”
“Then this one’s a cousin,” Samuel said.
Köhler looked down at the loaf in his hands. He didn’t cry. He held the bread against his chest and breathed in.
“Thank you.”
“Thank me by eating it.”
Köhler turned toward Farrow. He’d been standing two feet inside the kitchen door with his coat still on. He’d let everyone else have their moment first before he stepped forward.
Köhler said, “Christmas?”
“I’ll make sure Henry gets a wreath.”