Shrapnel's dotter

hated shrapnel. The way it got all through, the way it was said to infect. Shrapnel's dotter had become a physician's assistant because of her mediocre MCAT's, because support from the family was lackluster. She could do nearly all a physician could do, which irritated her when she was waiting to get prescriptions signed by Dr. Freed talking on his cell to his wife. Apparently, there was algae in the pool filter. Shrapnel's dotter did okay, no Lexus, no Prada, some nightly Skyy. Okay. She had an expensive bird, didn't bother teaching it to talk. It was very green. Her hatred of shrapnel was theoretical. She never saw shrapnel in her practice. Just got lucky, she supposed, if a general lack of exploding things in her vicinity could be considered luck. Maybe if she had had to face it, she would have grown to appreciate and fear its tenacity. If she had been forced to tweeze it from some nasty maybe even gangrenous wounds, things might have turned out otherwise, but she was a PA in a very small town. A very nice, very small town, where no one saw much shrapnel until the day she detonated herself in the parking lot of the SuperWalMart. They said of her later that she had been good with children, knew just how to distract them, and that they trusted her.