I could hear my little brother’s giggling as I slunk out the door, but once outside, things worsened. Women were coming away from their baking stones, and each held a sheet of unleavened bread, and each was muttering some variation of “Hey, there’s a kid on my bread.”

I ran to Joshua’s house and stormed in without knocking. Joshua and his brothers were at the table eating. Mary was nursing Joshua’s newest little sister, Miriam.

“You are in big trouble,” I whispered in Josh’s ear with enough force to blow out an eardrum.

Joshua held up the flatbread he was eating and grinned, just like the face on his bread. “It’s a miracle.”

“Tastes good too,” said James, crunching a corner off of his brother’s head.

“It’s all over town, Joshua. Not just your house. Everyone’s bread has your face on it.”

“He is truly the Son of God,” Mary said with a beatific smile.

“Oh, jeez, Mother,” James said.

“Yeah, jeez Mom,” said Judah.

“His mug is all over the Passover feast. We have to do something.” They didn’t seem to get the gravity of the situation. I was already in trouble, and my mother didn’t even suspect anything supernatural. “We have to cut your hair.”

“What?”

“We cannot cut his hair,” Mary said. She had always let Joshua wear his hair long, like an Essene, saying that he was a Nazarite like Samson. It was just another reason why many of the townspeople thought her mad. The rest of us wore our hair cut short, like the Greeks who had ruled our country since the time of Alexander, and the Romans after them.

“If we cut his hair he looks like the rest of us. We can say it’s someone else on the bread.”

“Moses,” Mary said. “Young Moses.”

“Yes!”

“I’ll get a knife.”

“James, Judah, come with me,” I said. “We have to tell the town that the face of Moses has come to visit us for the Passover feast.”