Gemotions

John scrubbed at his temples, his head throbbing. The receptionist's casual apology echoed in his ears – *“Oops, looks like your file got mixed up with… well, Mr. Henderson’s.”* He replayed her words, his mind struggling to accept the absurdity. He, John, was suddenly a seventy-year-old with a debilitating lung condition. He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair, a nervous gesture he hadn't realized he was doing. The waiting room, usually a source of mild boredom, seemed menacing now, each cough and sigh a judgment.

His legs felt unsteady as he walked towards the exit, and he gripped the door handle with white knuckles. The bright sunlight outside felt harsh against his skin. He needed air, needed to think, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess. He had a meeting in an hour. How could he possibly concentrate?