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The Bedroom

           "

           "Themarksonhisneck,Jack.Thosearereal."

           "Yes."

           Therewasnothingelseforalongtime.Shehadbeguntothinkhemusthavegonetosleepandshewasslippingintoadrowseherselfwhenhesaid:

           "Icanthinkoftwoexplanationsforthose.Andneitheroftheminvolvesafourthpartyinthehotel."

           "What?"Shecameupononeelbow.

           "Stigmata,maybe,"hesaid.

           "Stigmata?Isn’tthatwhenpeoplebleedonGoodFridayorsomething?"

           "Yes.SometimespeoplewhobelievedeeplyinChrist’sdivinityexhibitbleedingmarksontheirhandsandfeetduringtheHolyWeek.ItwasmorecommonintheMiddleAgesthannow.InthosedayssuchpeoplewereconsideredblessedbyGod.Idon’tthinktheCatholicChurchproclaimedanyofitasout-and-outmiracles,whichwasprettysmartofthem.Stigmataisn’tmuchdifferentfromsomeofthethingstheyogiscando.It’sbetterunderstoodnow,that’sall.Thepeoplewhounderstandtheinteractionbetweenthemindandthebody-studyit,Imean,nooneunderstandsit-believewehavealotmorecontroloverourinvoluntaryfunctionsthantheyusedtothink.Youcanslowyourheartbeatifyouthinkaboutitenough.Speedupyourownmetabolism.Makeyourselfsweatmore.Ormakeyourselfbleed."

           "YouthinkDannythoughtthosebruisesontohisneck?Jack,Ijustcan’tbelievethat.

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