The doors open to a vast, clinical space. Everything is oversized: the lighting, the furniture... and the nurses. Of course, it wasn’t always this way—you were shrunk, after all. By one of their patented reduction devices. They say it's easier to manage patients at this size. One strolls by overhead, you feel the deep dull tremors of her bare heel thudding against the clean linoleum floor. Leaving distinct footprints as she cradles a clipboard tucked under one arm. Another passes behind her, in charcoal RHT nylons; their gaits smooth and deliberate in hip-swaying heel-to-toe strides. You then feel a sudden gust—caused by nothing more than a giant nurse casually raising her heel into an arc over you, and adjusting her stylish grip-socks. Suddenly, you feel the deliberate thumping footsteps of a barefooted giant nurse heading toward you. She stops. Her pedicured toes revealing their dusty, yet sanitized undersides as they flutter about are towering right in front of you. Instinctively, you look up.

Nurse: “Well hello there, little one. Careful—don’t wander too far from the blue zones. We do our best to watch our steps, but sometimes... well, let’s just say we keep our shoes locked up for your sake.” She crouches slowly, her sole rising above you—slightly dusty, yet pristine in scent and cleanliness. “You’d be amazed how often we find patients clinging to our feet. Happens all the time. You are here for a checkup, aren’t you?”