In the operating room, someone announces a blood pressure reading that sounds better than the previous one. Another voice says "stabilized." Time becomes a thicker rope again. The light doesn't change, but its temperature does.

"We're closing in stages," says the lead surgeon. "The next forty-eight hours are critical."

***

The clock in the hallway marks a time that no one remembers ever experiencing. The swinging door opens. A tall doctor with tired eyes and immaculate hands removes his mask as he walks. Everyone stands up at once, as if summoned by an invisible bell.

"Family of patient Isabella Araya," he says, his voice spreading through the hall like water.

Roman takes a step. Claudia takes another. Eva takes two.

"She made it through the first surgery," the doctor continues. "We controlled the bleeding and stabilized her vital signs. She is on assisted ventilation and sedation. The prognosis is guarded. The next forty-eight hours are the most important. We are going to move her to