Last month I sat in the emergency waiting room of a thriving hospital, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cup of my pee in the other. Both were steaming. The pain in my lower back had gotten severe enough for me to go there at midnight. "This guy's already on antibiotics" exclaimed the doctor upon examining my computerized file, a more trusted source than my own testimony. The computer was correct, I had been on antibiotics for 10 days with no improvement; in fact, my kidney infection had gotten worse.

Another blood test, and I got my own hospital room. Self-help propaganda adorned the walls. The ice water tasted good. Would the damage wrecked by this mutated super-virus lower my kidneys' resale value?

If my kidneys were going bad, which camp was I in? Every time a shadow approached to open my curtain with a metallic whisk, I panicked: which angel comes to call? Would my deteriorating kidneys be saved at the last minute, only to be removed for a more worthy customer, myself having proved a reckless caretaker? Or would I be on the receiving end of an "instant replacement plan" if things went further south? Or would I be faked out completely and injected with blue gel in exchange for an undisclosed sum. For whom were they working to save me? I passed out briefly and dreamed of the blue gel.

New urinations were fluorescent orange. Due to the "muscle relaxants" they said. "We've also switched you to a different antibiotic in the IV."

"Can you dial the throttle back a little on the IV?" I asked. "You've got me peeing every 15 minutes." They were flushing me out. I slept again.

7AM came and I was awakened, handed too much paperwork and hastily let go with instructions I was too groggy to understand. Two waving red glow sticks directed me down a long narrow corridor ending at the Cashier's Window. I was ambivalent at this point, and barely dressed. I secretly and inexplicably hoped this was my lucky break; already my mind was racing on how I'd spend the proceeds. But, alas, no life-sized endorsed check; in fact they asked me to pay them. Somewhat disappointed, I fumbled toward my back pocket reaching for my wallet. I thought I felt something rough and raised on the surface of the skin on my lower back. But, there were no mirrors around for me to examine the evidence of what they might have done to me.

"Debit or credit?" the clerk asked.

"You tell me," I wondered out loud.

I didn't go to work that morning because my back still hurt a little. I didn't go to work the next day either because I had twisted my neck trying to get a good look at my lower back.

I still pull up my shirt sometimes and contort myself, searching for those invisible stitches.