Nothing to do but pace, my boots clicking dully on the scarred linoleum floor. (Linoleum! Tells you how old this fragging place is.) There’s a tattered vinyl couch in the waiting room, but I’m not in the mood for multiple puncture wounds from the springs. Sit on the couch and you suddenly become another patient for the doc to patch up and charge you a hundred nuyen for doing it. I keep finding my gaze drawn back to the ancient twelve-hour-style digital clock on the wall. It reads six oh-three, which translates to 1803 in real time, only a minute or two since I last looked. Time fragging flies when you’re having a drekky time.