“Can you please tell me what happened?” Maria asked, staring above him at the clock on the pale green wall.

“Sorry, but I can't tell that from this screen here. You would need to ask the doctors that, anyway.” The man rolled his chair backwards, away from the counter and looked at the hurried woman demanding more knowledge than she was allowed. He crossed his arms and nodded in agreement with his own sagely advice and continued speaking to her, just as slowly as before. “Now, the hematology wing is two floors up, down the corridor, and to your left. Just follow the red tiles on the floor or the signs on the walls. Her room number is three forty-eight.” He pointed down the hallway and watched her walk towards the elevator. The heels of her shoes beat against the tile floor, filling the hall with a rythmic clatter like the percussion section of a marching band.

“Thank you.” She hurried in the direction he pointed, repeating his instructions to herself. Red tiles. Three forty-eight. I don’t understand why Tía Carla is here, though. I hope it’s not genetic, she thought.

Maria pulled absent-mindedly at her hair while waiting for the elevator; she was pleased to note it was finally long enough that she could reach behind her back and finger the curls. As soon as the elevator arrived at the floor and opened its doors with a BING, Maria rushed inside. She was relieved to find it empty. I need to relax, to breathe. She’s probably fine. Just a little too much running, I'm sure. She composed her thoughts, certain that this was a minor issue to be logically and efficiently dealt with. It would pass, just like that bad dream always faded when she awoke with the sunrise each morning.

She didn’t want to think of that nightmare just then, yet it intrigued her at the same time. It was a nightmare that had haunted her sleep as long as she could remember; it often left her screaming and thrashing her feet, but she could never recall what it was about. All the dream left her with was a speeding pulse and the taste of warm metal in her mouth. The metallic taste returned to her when she showered the mornings after her nightmare. If she closed her eyes to keep out the shampoo, she would see scarlet instead of the usual dull, brown, nothingness to which she was accustomed. Each time, she debated experiencing the eerie reds to the sting of her shampoo.

She could hear her nervous pulse in her ears as the blood in her capillaries gushed past her eardrums. It bothered her. She repeated her aunt’s room number to the rhythm of her heels on the floor. She always liked to hear the aggressive steps she took.

Maria’s mother recognized the quick, punctuated sounds of her heels and stepped outside of room three forty-eight to greet her and inform her of what had happened.