The nurse who was in charge of the waiting room stopped and despite her years of experience her jaw dropped. She had just come from seeing a patient outside, not normally something she would do herself but whatever, things happen and when she turned around here he was.

He, she thought, might not be the correct word. She could see the faint line around the top of the neck, a thin, hard-to-see line that she had only ever seen when a graft is used from someone else on a patient.

He wasn't a crossdresser and there was no way hormones could do what she was seeing. No, this was something very different.

She got close and he turned to her. Somehow, what he said next was more chilling in than all of this. It was said so softly, so matter-of-factly, like there was a disconnect between what was going on and the extreme seriousness of all of this.

"Miss, I think there is something wrong with me."