"Lady, I got two months to live," I explain. My legs trembling beneath me like some stoner just caught his buzz and can't stand on his own two feet. "That may be, but I can't let you on there with this," she argues. Her voice firm, and her eyes confirm she is unconvinced. She whispers into the mouthpiece of her walkie-talkie something garbled that I can't make out; my hearing obscured by the drugs taking their toll on my body. I lost my sense of smell earlier this year. Suddenly food lost its flavor; the doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong until an assistant asked if maybe I just lost my sense of smell, then suddenly it became clear that it wasn't anything serious. "Get me your supervisor," I demand. She squares off her footing and places her fists on either hip, standing firmly as if waiting for backup. Sure enough, not a moment later two other men show up, armed and just as serious. "Sir, he'll tell you the same th...