He was slim in build, and even as he sat in his wheelchair, you could see that he was tall. Infected, he claimed, by a serious bout of sexual promiscuity with women and too much alcohol. He gave me an overenthusiastic grin, trying just a bit too hard to be nonchalant, and said “Hey good-looking, coming to see me next?” I nodded absent-mindedly, trying to get through the note I was writing and simultaneously fending off the 20-odd patients clamoring the halls, all keen to get a word in with the doctor before their chance at an intervention disappeared for another week. Even though we frequented the nursing home far more often than mandated by state regulations, there still seemed to be so much to do and such little time to do it in. I told Mr. J I'd be with him in a minute, and he smiled affably. “I'll be waiting in my room,” he said pointedly, knowing full well it would take me too long to get to him.