Today at the Birch Street Nursing Home, Mrs. Patterson attacked Mrs. Kunkle. I was downstairs, cleaning fingerprints off the windows, when I heard the loud thud and scream. I rushed to Mrs. Patterson's room, where Mrs. Patterson had knocked Mrs. Kunkle to the floor and was standing over her, keeping her down with a broom. "I got her this time," Mrs. Patterson shouted at me. "This woman keeps coming into my room, stealing from me. She's working for Mrs. Shimshack." After I helped Mrs. Kunkle up, I tried to calm Mrs. Patterson down by explaining that Mrs. Kunkle has a disorder that makes her need to touch the light switches and windows several times a day. I told Mrs. Patterson that Mrs. Kunkle was not stealing from her, and reminded her once again that Mrs. Shimshack is dead. But Mrs. Patterson did not seem convinced. It was at that moment that I decided I would need to create a concoction to cure Mrs. Kunkle's disorder.
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