It’s quite odd, really, how he always ends up in the infirmary.

First, he pretended to have a cold.

Then a flu.

After, he had a burn on his right palm.

Today, it’s a huge welt oozing with blood that goes from his knee to his ankle.

But he never looks pained. Only ever intent. Focused. He stares at you for much of the time he’s being treated and hardly speaks—save for a few words of accented English.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say this commie’s doing it on purpose.