Like a bat, we hang around

It was the “American Horror Story” version of “Let’s Make a Deal.”

Behind curtain No. 1 was a bat in the bedroom. Curtain No. 2 cloaked a series of 20 shots (not of the alcohol variety).

The bat was fluttering inside our bedroom curtain. Upon releasing our temporary pet outdoors, I realized being a softy on the death penalty would have consequences. By not killing the bat and having it tested, we would likely have to get rabies shots.

So off to the emergency room I went with my wife and son. Five years ago, I wrote a column about The Kid’s ninehour ordeal at Stamford Hospital waiting to have his tongue stitched. Since then, hospital officials have guided me through construction and debut of the pediatric unit, which means children no longer face the possibility of toddling alongside drunks and bloodied crime suspects.

His doctor predicted an inevitable return, given his active nature, while staff members pledged in a sequel column that they would be ready if that time came.

I hate spoiler alerts, but they weren’t ready.

Though he seems to be training to replace Tom Cruise in the “Mission Impossible” franchise, The Kid has dodged the ER in his 6-plus years. Instead, we land there together, making me the oldest pediatric patient ever.

“I looked it up on the CDC (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention) website,” the doctor says.

“Um, so did I,” my wife, Lisa, replies. I get nervous when Google is chief consultant on any diagnosis.

There is no evidence of bites, but the doctor wisely advises us that “I’m going to make the decision for you” to get the shots.

It’s the right call. Curtain No. 3 is too high a risk, as rabies is often diagnosed via autopsy.

So, we wait for the doses to be prepared while trapped in our box. Tick, tick, tick. One hour.

My wife entertains herself with offered coloring book pages and crayons. The Kid prefers our phones.

Tick, tick, tick. Another hour.

I fold one of the pages into a garage to house his toy cars. I blow up a latex glove and sketch grim faces expressing our growing impatience. We use it to play indoor volleyball.

Tick, tick, tick. Hour three.

Phones drained, The Kid pressures us to let him use the hospital computer. “We shouldn’t move anything around,” I chasten.

Tick, tick, tick. Hour four. Deciding the space isn’t very feng shui, I shuffle the furniture. In doing so, we finally find the remote for the TV. Commercials mock our hunger. A nurse catches me using soap to pretend to foam at the mouth. I question if our meds are in a different ZIP code. It turns out they are, specifically in 06830. Yes, Stamford Hospital needed to go to Greenwich Hospital’s pharmacy.

I realized I’ve been holding back my best weapon. The Kid has been pleading for a pardon for three hours. I release him from the box.

“When are we getting our shots?” he pesters everybody. He charms a nurse into giving him a toy car.

The doctor returns with a “peace offering” of three ice pops. I was hoping they were needles.

“I feel so bad, you’ve been waiting so patiently,” he says.

We eat our grape and orange dinners, along with a little time challenging each other with the riddles on the sticks (“What has three feet but no toes?”).

By the time the doses are ready, The Kid has decided he wants to go first. He takes his two without blinking, apparently more interested in seeing how Lisa deals with her three and if I will survive my six. He is less emboldened by the follow-up shots on days four (at the Tully Center) and seven (in a North Carolina ER), but was back in form on day 14 when we returned to Stamford Hospital (maybe it’s the improved feng shui).

I would hope hospital pharmacies would be well-stocked with rabies treatments during August in New England, but the staff could not have been kinder.

As we leave, I cynically opine that the delay was an evil plot to collect more in parking fees since visitors pay by the hour. I reach for the ticket and check the time stamp. Five hours and 20 minutes have passed.

The other piece of paper in my pocket is a sticker The Kid had the wisdom to reject.

It is, appropriately, a cartoon of The Batman. Inappropriately, it bears an enthusiastic farewell that doubles as a threat: “See you next time!”

I realized I’ve been holding back my best weapon. The Kid has been pleading for a pardon for three hours. I release him from the box.