Short hair, cropped just inline with her her shoulders. The chestnut strands brush the edge of a phone pressed fully to her ear, and with a mouth pulled tight in frustration. Fingers moving in anticipation, an impulse to fight the nerves. She shoves her free hand generously into the pocket of her winter coat, leaning up against the wall. She turns to look out through the window aside her. The calm scenery a far away utopia. There she stands alone, in a blank corridor surrounded by bare white walls, a stark contrast to the crowd inside her head. She busily mutters under her breath, fumbling with words. "I know, I know you needed it by yesterday. Yes, I know. I can get it to you by tomorrow, I swear." There's a brief pause before she inhales sharply. "No sir. Please, I just need one more day." She's breathing heavily now, her pleas straining her voice to a whisper. The storm is brewing. Her chest the rough sea, swells rising up and down. In a flash she grasps her chest, clutching her heart, protecting it with her hands. A silent, salty drop falling from her face. The impact, quiet echo ringing through her ears. "No, no, no, please!" She slides down the wall, her body lowering toward the ground. She sits there breathing, quiet and motionless; back pressed forcefully against the white. The beep of the dial tone, pulsing through her hand, her ears, her veins. The sound runs through her body, shaking it to realisation; she can't just stay here, she has to try. She rushes to her feet; with no time to compose herself, pushes off from the floor.
The hospital. So many people, so many stories. She runs; occasionally catching glimpses of the patients in their rooms, with family and friends, letters from their loved ones, awaiting a nurse. Some are sleeping, resting in a peaceful state; oblivious to the world around them, and the time ticking by, second by second. She lifts her wrist, still dashing through the halls. The hands on her watch are moving too, every second rattling her mind. Each time the hand moves for her, it does for them. Each step she takes closer, is a step closer for them. How can she compete; how can she get there in time. She's near, only two more turns. The white, pasted on the walls, covering everything. The same white. Her eyes betray her, trick her. The white merges the floor to the walls, to the ceiling. A tunnel of blank space, leading to the room. She stops. 232 is written on the panel, breaking the white, breaking her frenzy. The swinging doors slap shut behind her as she steps through. The room, once carrying a boy, was empty. No sound, no movement. The only thing out of place is the shape of an 11 year old boy, left indented in the bed sheets. The fresh, lingering scent slowly diminishing and being dragged out by the breeze through the open window. He's gone.
