I'm sitting in the doctor's office waiting room next to a man who smells like he's been shut up in a dark, airless room for three days, chain-smoking filterless Camels. Determined to be polite, I will not move to a different chair across the room, crinkle my nose, or roll my eyes to the ceiling. A lady taps her walker on the floor in time with the Christmas carol that's playing through speakers somewhere, and she moves slowly across the room to disappear through a door with the nurse who called her name and who is holding a brown clipboard. A young man, whose left foot is booted and curled behind him, resting on a scooter, zips by me on his way to the check-out counter, his wife trotting behind him. Beep! Beep! Before I can turn around to marvel at the scooter, another nurse, looking frazzled and holding yet another brown clipboard, calls my name.