After what seemed like an eternity sitting at the table in the main lodge, pretending to fill out informational forms, trying to avoid eye contact with my fellow inmates, I was ushered into a back room for a physical examination. They had me strip down naked, change into a gown, and then predictably step on a scale, the numbers of which were carefully covered. Then they drew blood, asked me informational questions about my health history, and hooked me up to an electrocardiogram machine. The machine, it was soon determined, was not working because it had run out of printer paper. As I lay there, naked, covered only by a thin sheath of fabric, a parade of nurses moved in and out of the room, each one fussing over the machine, attempting to load new paper, failing, calling reinforcements. I wanted to assure them: “it’s okay. We can do this later. I’m sure no one will notice.” But I knew there was nothing I could do. I was silent, or maybe I was crying softly. I can’t remember. Finally, they got the machine loaded and going, completed the test, and I was allowed to put my clothes back on.
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