Impuls

Emily is waved away, told not to disturb her and to stand in the corner, and she, huddled in a chair at the very end of the operating room, keeps her eyes on the surgeons and the screens: they now show the image of the shaved back of the patient's head.

Emily can hardly see what is happening, but she can clearly hear Dylan joyfully informing her that she can dissect.

– Begi

Clark, standing on the other side of the patient, yawns under his mask.

The screens show every movement: here the surgeon carefully cuts a small, horseshoe-like semicircle; puts staples on both sides of the skin, secures them; Clark runs a scalpel inside, carefully separating tissue from bone; the operating nurse instantly dries. Clark dissects the periosteum, waits for Gilmore to make a few holes, and then carefully peels away the unwanted part. There is a quiet whirring sound: the small saw gently passes between the holes, leaving only one untouched – at this point the bone flap they peeled off earlier will be co

Every movement, every millimeter, every next step is fine-tuned; the precision with which Gilmore performs the trepanation gives Emily's back goose bumps.

And the doctor is amused.

– I've reached…" Riley begins.

– …bottom," Dylan finishes for him.

– Fuck you. Cutting through the hard shell… Great. That's it, you're out.

What Clark does next remains a mystery to Emily: she sees two thin wires on large handles bouncing back and forth inside the patient's head; she hears unfamiliar words and Gilmore's approving exclamations:

– Oh, how glorious… I see you had a great morning!

– What makes you think that? – Clark throws a clip in the cuvette and immediately puts a new one in.

– So Moss is on the night shift today.

– Moss has been going to a lot of nights. Who lets him in there anyway?

– He's his own boss. – Riley shrugs. – Give us a zoom on square four…

– Well," Clark puts the instrument aside, "that's his choice. After all, you and I aren't in the waiting room to complain.

– Neither is he in the waiting room at night. – The surgeon pushes the tissue aside. – I don't see any tumors yet, which is what I needed to prove.

– Let him do what he wants. As long as he doesn't show up here," Clark grimaced.

– Exactly," Riley agreed. – Davis, by the way, asked for Saturday off. Daughter's ballet dancing.

– That's good, too. – Clark picks up the thin metal wires again. – Maybe I should take the day off, too, eh, Rye? – Sigh. – Go to the opera house, see the world around me… Oh, here's a cut-out," the neurosurgeon a

– No necrosis? – Riley himself brings a small tube-extractor to the area.

– I can't see it yet. – Clark stares at the monitor while her hands move. – But I can see inflammation, third quadrant; it's spread to the fourth, going diagonal. We can treat it, or we can cut it out. What do you think?

– Cut it already," the surgeon waved his hand. – If it's gone.

– Well, wake up, then.

Dylan hums contentedly. Buttons click; numbers flicker on the screen, there is a beep; anesthesiologist begins counting: ten, nine …

Clark brings the microscope to her eyes – the same one she calibrated – and puts the optics back over her eyes.

– Four, three, two…

Emily jumps up from her chair; one of the nurses lifts the blue curtain covering the main part of the patient's body. Johnson sees the girl open her dry lips and let out a strange, thin, "Ahhhh" as she exhales.

– We're breathing, we're fine," says Dylan. – Now, miss, come on, your right arm up a little… Good! Now the left one… Now bend your leg, that's it, good girl…! Your nurse will speak to you now, so try to answer all her questions, okay? Good. – He's rubbing his hands together. – She's all yours! Keep your oxygen mask on.

– Take the plots at twenty-five," Clark commands. – Rye, get ready… You're good to go, Johnson.

Emily instantly forgets everything she's been trying to think about for so long, and gives out a shameful:

– How's it going?

If Clark could stop her instrument, she'd do it right away; but it's too late; so she just hisses something resembling "brainless girl" through her teeth and shuts up.

– It's okay," comes the patient's faint voice. – I don't feel anything.

– That's good," Emily smiled. – Do not move.

Another silly thing: the girl's head is fixed so tightly that even if the bed starts to rodeo, nothing in her skull will tremble.

Through the endless beeps of tension, Emily asks questions: what color the sky is; how she feels now; where they are; and asks for her name and approximate time. Clark and Gilmore work quickly, almost without speaking; instruments clatter; a microscope barely buzzes.

Finally, there's a hiss-that's Clark literally welding the damaged tissue together.

– That's it, let's go to sleep. We have a mild lesion on the cortical terminal of the frontal oblique bundle. No lesions on the occipital lobe. The visual crossover is probably intact, but I can't get to it. Graciole's radius is badly damaged, as if someone chopped it up in the middle. I don't see anything else. No tumors, no abnormalities, no hematomas. No response to low frequencies… That's it, I've taken the data," Clark finally exhales. – Damn!" The instrument falls to the floor with a thud. – Give me a new tap. Kate, did you fall asleep in there? Kate…?

Emily takes a step, but not in time – the same nurse who was fussing at the surgical table, quietly slips down the glass partition; either from the sight of blood, or from the heat her eyes roll back, and she faints. Johnson stares at the body on the floor for a split second, and then takes Collin's corndog from the tray against the wall and hands it to Clark.

Her actions take no more than three seconds – as if in a dance: step, turn, step back; Clark quickly clutches the right cloth, Gilmore snorts disapprovingly.

– Let it lie. – Dylan taps the keys. – Then we'll get the janitors to clean it up.

– Damn nurses," Clark gritted through his teeth. – It's trouble. Why can't I get another surgeon?