From the moment that I subconsciously forced my eyes to open, I already knew that we were late. I picked my body up in such a way that my limp head was left unsupported, and finally upright, I could start to faintly make out the soft roaring of the air conditioner that had been our life support throughout the hot and humid tropical night. Soon, the unfamiliar noises outside joined in on the clamour—the roosters, the stray dogs, the infrequent passing-bys of motorcycles. I took in one deep breath to finally get myself oriented. Then I looked over to my side to see my younger brother and older sister still in a stupor despite all of us having been crammed in a queen-sized bed. I lied back down and raised one of my hands up in the air while observing it, paying close attention to what nature fine-tuned so precisely but hardly goes noticed—that is—the pulse. With each beat, I witnessed my hand grow ever so slightly, as if it were taking the same breaths that filled my lungs. I brought my hand back down to my breast and felt a similar breathing but made by the organ that was the mastermind of it all. There was no imperfection. We were undoubtedly late but no one cared, and the thumping was the proof.