As always, Ms. Height immediately and unsubtly declares the way that the world should work in the space of a few breaths, surprising our poor friend with her sudden identification of him (it must have been that gait, he thinks for a moment) and her dropping of a name. He briefly considers that it might be a mistaken identity, but she is too confident, too certain; no, she has just used the name he used to have. Johannesen. Nothing like Isaac at all, then. The sound of the name is familiar, but the memories refuse to come marching obediently one by one at the summons, a mixed blessing given the circumstances. Some answer is expected.

What does he say? What can he say to someone like this, pristine and prim and most definitely not wanting to hear about how he sleeps outside and couldn't get a job even if he wanted to have one right now? Is he even meant to be making small talk while wearing the Mask of Autumn, or is this, as he is more accustomed to, the sort of uniform that demands a heightened level of decorum? He was never good at the liturgy. Better, better at the trials, the endurance, the struggle. She is still waiting for an answer, and the moment drags on, straining at the boundaries of conversational etiquette.

A decision has to be made. Not just about what to say, about who he is, the narrative he is making of his life.

"Mistaken," he says, his voice too rough to sound as he would like it to sound: apologetic about the mistaken identity, yet eager to help her catch up to speed. Instead, it likely sounds brusque. "Just Isaac. Last I heard, Johannesen died." And that's the truth, if you look at it the right way, tilt your head and look at our friend the Pilgrim, his skin a tapestry of burnt offerings, his body made vast and terrible, half monster and half athlete and all of it a pilgrim; what about him is left from the person who was judged unworthy so long ago? Is the ship of Theseus still his ship?

Suddenly self-conscious, head aflame, throat tight with embarrassment, Isaac bows his head once, a movement of the entire body- and if he was not masked it might look like a bull about to gore her against its horns- and attempts to make an escape. That's what he's good at, after all. But this is not a jungle, and it would be very rude indeed to jump onto the wall and clamber up to a better vantage point, and people like Height have a way of using their words as a lasso.