Sandbox

I'm at a clinic back in Mexico where they are preparing a new pair of hands for me. Currently, the doctors are busy molding out the new prostheses from my existing limbs. They mention that one of the fingers on my right hand is crooked but they fix the imperfection right away on the artificial one.

This job is being paid by my medical insurance. It's not as if I lost a limb and need replacing it. It's more like I'm getting an upgrade.

Once the doctors are done molding my new hands, I'm off to my hospital room to wait to get them on. My brother is here, and we kill some time together. But my new hands never arrive.

We exit the room and return downstairs to find out what happened. We approach the orthopedic unit's front desk and ask the clerk about my new hands. I'm waiting for them.

The clerk checks his paperwork, and lets me know my hands have been sent to my surgeon, the one who'll attach them. There's just one problem: I don't know who my surgeon is, or where he is located. Stupid insurance handled all that, or at least was supposed to.

I ask the clerk if he can tell me the name of my surgeon. He gives me a look that says he can't be bothered with this. He starts shuffling through his paperwork again anyway.

He finds a document from my insurance company and mutters something along the likes of "Of course, damn gringos," as if that explained anything. I happen to notice on the document the name of my employer: Enron. I feel like explaining to this guy that I was actually born and raised in this city, but I keep my mouth shut.

He finally finds the order form for my new hands. I can see my name in it. Still, he asks me: "What's your name?"

That's when I open my eyes. Looking around my bedroom, drifting from sleep to wake, I know the clerk is waiting for my response at the other side of consciousness, so I tell him my name, adding at the end: "I'm the patient."

He never answered back. As I finally awoke, I wondered how the surgeon would have put my new hands on me.