The nun approached, dropped her black carry-on bag, and bumped into me. “Oh, sorry, Sister. I’m not usually . . . ouch!”
I looked down at my arm and saw the syringe. A syringe that the nun held, had stuck me with, and then tucked into the sleeve of her robe.
A haze started to cloud the room. My mind was . . . fuzzy. Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Stop that, Pączki! I laughed. The fuzzy nun pushed me into the bathroom. “Ouch!” I bumped my head on the wall. “Daddy calls me Pączki.” I giggled, stumbled. “It’s a Polish prune-filled donut.”
I rubbed my arm. Make that three arms. I saw three arms attached to me on one side, four on the other. “You pinched me. That hurt. Nuns shouldn’t . . . pinch . . . What did you give me? I hope to hell that syringe was sterile!”
Without a word, he pulled off his veil.
He?