In less than a half-hour I entered a ward that contained sixteen beds, half of them empty. The nurse in charge led me to the bed where the young model lay, eyes closed, a flesh-toned plastic bandage taped to her forehead.

“Only a few minutes,” the nurse whispered to me.

I nodded.

“Miss Promachos,” the nurse called softly, leaning over the bed. “You have a visitor.”

The young woman’s eyes opened. Those lustrous gray eyes that seemed as deep as eternity.

“Only a few minutes,” the nurse repeated. Then she walked away, her soft-soled shoes squeaking on the tiled floor.

“You… you’re the one who saved me, in the restaurant.”

I could feel my heart throbbing wildly, and I made no effort to slow it. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes, thanks to you. Only this cut on my forehead; they said I won’t need plastic surgery, it won’t leave a scar.”

“That’s good.”

Her lips curled upward slightly. “And a few bruises on my body and legs from being knocked down.”

“Oh. I’m sorry…”

She laughed. “Don’t be! If you hadn’t knocked me over…” The laughter faded. Her lovely face grew serious.

I stepped closer to the bed. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt seriously. I… I don’t even know your name.”

“Aretha,” she said. “Call me Aretha.” Her voice was a low, soft purr, totally feminine without being high-pitched or shrill.

She didn’t ask me my name, but instead looked at me with a gaze that seemed perfectly calm, yet expectant, as if she were waiting for me to tell her something. Something important. I began to feel uneasy, confused.