A prosthetic leg greets meresting solemnly in its usual spotatop a roughly textured wheelchairparked in a dim corner.A faded gold plaque:“Honoring Those Who Served”from Davita Dialysis, hangs proudlyacross the peeling paint.Still deflated, a birthday balloonstruggles to stay afloat behindthe tattered sheets of the bed.“How was dialysis today?”“Oh, the usual,” he smirks,“I go in as a grape,they squeeze me outinto a raisin!”His witty mantra is admirable.I search for the next question,taking a seat on the singular stripedand always unoccupied armchair.