Louise recalled how Baptiste sat like a man that day at his small desk. He had sat for a very long time in his dusty clothes waiting for the school day to end. He seemed distant and sleepy, rattling his pen in the empty inkwell and turning every few minutes to glance at Louise. Ernie Matt tossed a pencil shaving on Baptiste’s desk. “Eat this,” he whispered. But Baptiste only put his chin to his chest and squeaked his fingers on the desktop. He sat for too long, not getting the joke, not understanding he was the one being called John the Baptist. The other students began to understand too. They turned to see Baptiste, their faces tight with relief as if by watching him, by staring him down, they could chase the name of John the Baptist from themselves. They seemed to have forgotten his mother held a great power. Louise could feel something coming. Something moving along the hallway. She lifted her feet up from the wooden floor and stretched out her legs. Louise had heard Sister Sebastian as she leaned over his desk to hiss, “Baptiste,” to whisper, “John the Baptiste.” Louise had felt the numb center of her ears, a rushing sound move past her. She imagined for a moment she was seeing the sister’s coarse hair, the pulsing red crown of her skull beneath her black veil. She had heard the clicking of the sister’s rosary beads against Baptiste’s desk. The sister’s lips were tight, white rimmed, close to Baptiste’s ear.