The boy in the waiting room is not, in fact, a boy, but a young man, though his slender frame and hesitant shyness lead many to place his age at years below what it actually is. He fidgets, casting his gaze around the room, looking for something to occupy himself with. He is desperate to ignore his nearly sterile surroundings.

With a strange combinations of eagerness and fear, the boy stands as the nurse enters the room. She doesn't have time to call his name. She leads him to the scale, and he silently removes his shoes. Stepping on the scale, he reads the numbers: 117. He frowns at the three digits, mentally subtracting the 25 pounds of weights carefully hidden in his clothes. 92.

The nurse tells him to eat more, but the boy cannot hear her over the voices in his head calling him fat, ordering him to eat less, to not eat at all, to vomit up what he does eat. The doctor tells him the same as the nurse, but later, when the boy is home again, he takes his razor, carving delicate designs on his body. He runs for an hour on his treadmill.

That night, when he is asleep in his bed, he dreams of a pretty, skinny girl, with long brown hair and a beautiful smile. In his dreams, the girl does not starve herself, hurt herself, hate herself. In his dreams, he is that girl.