So he sat in the overly lit waiting room, and...waited. The TV was on, people flicked through out of date magazines, stared at their hands as they lay still and quiet in their lap. Hats and scarves were everywhere, but they weren't worn to guard against the cold, the room was stifling, claustrophobically warm. People murmured, they tapped their feet, some even laughed, but most sat and endured, it's what we do, we endure. Whether it is the sickness, or the waiting for relief from that sickness, we wait and we endure. We all waited, all infinitely patient. What else was there to do but wait? He could sigh and fidget, he could roll his eyes, tut, and look exaggeratedly at the clock on the wall every two minutes, but it would change nothing, he could change nothing. The procedure, the process would take as long as it took, no more, no less. But he did sigh, he felt he was allowed at least one. So he shifted his feet, stared at his laces, and sighed.