When my balance is settled, the machine tells me to have a nice day. I tell it to go to hell, to which it doesn’t respond at all. I almost miss having to tip a real driver.
The hospital entrance is outfitted with more security than an international airport. I’m required to remove my belt, my shoes, my wallet, and just about anything else that isn’t biologically attached to my body. Then, when I’m finally through the scanners, a blue-uniformed cop runs a metal detector up and down my body.
“Overkill don’t you think?” I say.
“Tell it to somebody who cares, buddy,” he replies. “We didn’t fight and win the terrorist wars just to let our guard down now.”
The terrorist wars. I want to ask him how long it took to finally defeat radical Jihad, but he’s a cop and he’ll think
