Louise realized she had kept no distance from Baptiste. All of her focus, all of her attentions had been and were still directed toward Baptiste. Ignoring him had only made him present in her life. Now that he had given up on her she began to wonder if he had really chased her. He was in love with someone else, and she saw him only on occasion, but he no longer looked at her. She told herself she may have been the problem all along. She had nothing to worry about. And when Louise saw Baptiste Yellow Knife alone again, she was in the safety of Malick’s store, safe among rows of peanut butter and preserves, crates of fresh eggs. She walked down the main aisle, passing him. He said her name as she was heading for the counter, and for the first time in years, she turned to him and smiled. She had no way of knowing the power she had given him again, not until she glanced at him from the smoke-stained window as she was leaving. He stood just outside the store, his arms lank at his sides. Louise watched him for a long time, but he did not move from his place. He would not surrender his vigil. She wondered if he was waiting for Hemaucus but she realized too late her grandmother had been right. He was waiting for her. She should have ignored him forever.

Louise had only one nightmare in all the months she had denied him. In her dream, Baptiste was an old man swimming against river water. His shoulders were harnessed, pulling something she could not see. He estimated each swell, each hesitant wave. Watching. She heard the slap of water against the pockets of his body, to rock, to water, to rock. Up from a swell of water, silver as winter rain, he reached for her. He had not gotten her then and he would not get her now. Louise swallowed a deep breath of stale grocery air and stepped outside to face the hot sun and Baptiste Yellow Knife.

“Louise,” he said, and she hesitated in her walk. It had been a spring without rain. She could smell the autumn edge of leaves. The fields gave up the morning in great pulses of heat. She felt his desire in the dense heat of her breasts, a thousand snelled hooks pulled by little sinkers weighed the tips of her nipples, the heavy lobes of her ears. She placed her hand on her scalp and felt her blood beating. The sun was so hot she could count the strands of hair beneath her palm. A heaviness settled in her lungs like green water. She stopped and shifted her feet to brace herself against the son of Dirty Swallow. His presence was odd, like a pressing wind she had to lean into to gain strength.

“You don’t talk to me,” he said. “Do you hear me talking to you?”