As she straightened out in her chair, the muscles in her back screamed in pain. “I bet you’re regretting not sleeping in the bed down the hall now,” the nurse said sympathetically, taking Sister Gertrude’s vital signs with brisk efficiency, and writing down the results on a clipboard. “We each have our duties,” Sister Agatha said, wishing she had half a dozen aspirins. She hadn’t taken any of her arthritis medication and her joints were all stiff and sore. The nurse smiled, wished them both a good morning, and quickly disappeared. Five minutes later a perky brunette in her twenties, whose name tag read Maria Leahy, brought a breakfast tray for Sister Gertrude that included a dish of yogurt. “Now that you’re away from the monastery, you should take advantage and indulge yourself a bit!” she said cheerfully. Sister Gertrude looked at the young woman as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. Sister Agatha glanced at Sister Gertrude, smiled and shrugged wordlessly. For some odd reason, people always assumed that leaving the monastery was like a vacation for a nun.
