She had the stigmata. She was in a hotel room in Paris. She’d bandaged her hands and feet. She had to show the pharmacist the wounds on her hands to buy the bandages. She was lying in bed. She was afraid the blood would soak through. The sheets would be ruined. The blood would drip on the floor. Her husband was at his meeting. She would have to tell him. He would be furious. Their weekend in Paris ruined. She crossed her arms over her chest and curled up. Oh my God, she said. I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. She had to say it again. She didn’t say it with perfect contrition. She had to repeat it until she said it with perfect contrition. If she said it one hundred times with perfect contrition she would be healed. If she didn’t her husband would die. He would be killed by a car on his walk back to the hotel. He would be dragged under the car. She saw it happening. His head crushed under the wheel. He’d die in mortal sin. No, she said. No, no, no. She lay in bed quietly. On the television there was a tennis match. She didn’t remember turning it on. They were hitting the ball back and forth in a long rally. The sound of the ball being hit startled her. She closed her eyes and listened.