A woman is doing something in my mouth with a tongue depressor, and I cough. "Clear," she says. There are spots in my eyes, and a pen torch in her other hand. She has already checked my pupil dilation. What else? Oh, yes. A quick chat with my cyborg sex chip via the bespoke application on her iPhone to make sure my body is not flooding with inappropriate chemical enhancements, and then a remarkably large needle goes into one of my buttocks: antibiotics and a mild sedative, whatever other potions she deems necessary. An etched metal badge on her chest identifies her as Dr. Shenandoah.