Suna wheeled the morning's blood out through the laundry door. The carrier was heavier than her mother had been at the end. She had expected someone to stop her. A porter held the door.
She had inherited a position in the Pool and a folder of receipts. Four thousand people ahead of her. On the balconies above the draw room, people were said to be living on held years. Her mother had given blood twice a month. Suna washed the sheets downstairs.
The man waiting in the alley had given her a booklet with the middle pages changed. He said they would return what had been taken. She had asked about joining. He had asked which doors she could open.
She wanted to meet people who would say her mother's name without asking for a number. She also wanted the balcony. She had never told anyone this.
The man pulled the carrier toward the street.
"Where's your van?"
"They'll watch from upstairs."
He lifted the lid. The bags lay against white cold packs, each with its paper tag. He took one by the corner and held it over the gutter.
Suna caught his wrist.
"Put it back."
"You wanted it out of there."
Across the street a woman was coming down the clinic steps, pressing cotton to her arm. She recognized the carrier. Her slippers slapped the road.
"I've only just finished."
The man told her to stand back.
"Mine's in there."
He said the blood belonged to everyone who had given it.
The woman reached for the bag. He pushed her against the wall. Suna brought the lid down on his wrist. He dropped the bag inside and hit her across the ear. For a moment the alley went perfectly quiet. She could see his mouth working. When he reached again she kicked his knee sideways. He fell against the carrier and it rolled. She caught the handle with both hands.
The woman from the clinic helped her push. They got it over the doorstep together. Behind them the man was shouting that she had given him to the Office.
She had given him the time, the door, the number of porters. She had drawn him a map on the back of her mother's final notice.
The nurse checked the seals. She put a chair behind Suna before her legs folded. Someone brought a cup of sweet tea. Suna held it against the ear she could no longer hear with.
The woman in slippers kept asking whether her contribution counted. The nurse found her tag and showed her the number. The woman kissed it. Then she began to cry.
At the desk, a clerk asked Suna to identify the man. There was space for his associates. She took the pen. Her own map was in his pocket.
A donor in the next chair had started shaking. The nurse called for help. Suna put down the form and went over. She knew how to hold a wrist against linen without wrinkling the sheet.
"Don't let it come out," the donor said.
His other hand was pulling at the tube. Suna took that wrist too.
"Let go."
She looked toward the nurse, who was still coming. The donor twisted. Under her thumb his pulse kept striking the same small place.
Suna held on.