"Okay, Abby," said McGee, as he staggered into the lab carrying a huge hamper full of blood-stained linen. "Here's those bedsheets for you to test."
"Muchas gracias," said Abby, removing the hamper from his hands and placing it on the evidence table with one smooth gesture. As she did so, a small, metallic clink essayed from the neighborhood of her right wrist, and McGee, glancing down, saw a small, silver medallion attached to her spiked bracelet.
"Is that a Miraculous Medal?" he said.
Abby put a hand to her wrist, and laughed self-consciously. "No, it's a St. Paul medal," she said. "Sister Rosita gave it to me; she said that I should be doing something to honor my patron saint, what with its being his Year and all."
McGee blinked. "Paul's the patron saint of forensic analysts?"
"No, that's St. Thomas," said Abby. "St. Paul's the patron of people who get lost in their sentences. Didn't you ever read Ephesians 3?"
The honest answer would have been "No", but McGee suspected that that would diminish him in Abby's eyes, so he settled for the more neutral, "Good point."
"Besides," said Abby, her eyes gleaming, "how can you not love someone who made fountains spring up where his head bounced?"