Impuls

There they sit – half-dead, as if on burnt grass, staring with unseeing eyes at the sky – black, starless, bottomless. Sitting there, stilettoes under their ribs, broken bones, glands between their vertebrae; and Clark speaking, barely audible, not in his own voice, or, conversely, in his own, real, not artificially icy, not eternally ironic:

– How I hate all this.

Emily does not specify what; she is afraid to do anything at all; she knows: one move and Clark will fly away, disappear, dissolve; she is a damn bird with chains on her wings.

Clark warms up, becomes softer, lighter; he thaws, relaxes his head on Emily's shoulder, closes his eyes.

And as she buries her fingers in Clark's hair, the scent of her shampoo lingers on the tips of her hair.

And then she shakes Emily off, like shaking off useless, irritating dust; stands up sharply, slaps her palm against her palm, straightens her shoulders-a snow queen, a grin, a piercing look; tilts her head sideways and, her lips open, spits out an ice cube:

– I think it's time for you to go home.

And everything collapses again – or builds like a wall, brick by brick, bloody blocks, impenetrable, monolithic, marble; Emily nods, mutters "goodbye" – and walks out.

She is in so much pain that her stomach cramps and her mouth becomes unbearably bitter; but the sun persists in warming her pocket, as if to remind her that even people like Clark know how to feel.

The familiar gray building of London Royal Hospital unfriendlyly greets her with bustling corridors and the smell of buns in the break room.

That Lorraine isn't at work, she realizes immediately.

It's not because the door to the neurosurgeon's office is shut tightly; no, it's worse than that-it's wide open, as if Clark had just stepped out a minute ago.

Except that both robes are just as they were left yesterday, and the broken glass is still catching the reflection of the frowning sky in its shards. Things around Emily are scattered in chaos-folders mingled with crumpled papers, pens and pencils lying around, a fallen electronic clock counting down gently.

The white cloth, dirty and crumpled, is crumpled in the middle of the office, and Emily somehow picks it up first, as if it might still be usable for something; but reason tells her that professional cleaning is needed here, and the nurse simply unclenches her fist, letting the robes fall to her feet with a soft rustle.

Behind her she hears footsteps, keys jingle, a lock clicks; Emily feels the bitter smell reaching her through such a distance and panics: if Moss sees her here, he will fire her right away, for no reason, and he won't give a damn about Clark.

But luckily, the trouble passes her by, scorching her breath-the head of neurology slams his door on the inside, and the main corridor is quiet again.

Emily exhales.

– This place needs to be cleaned up. – A heavy hand rests on her shoulder.

She shudders in surprise and turns abruptly; her brown hair, loosely tied up in a bun, falls in locks and bobby pins to the floor with a metallic clang.

Gilmore, who remains perfectly calm, yawns frankly:

– We're working with Neil today, and you're still with me on general pla

Emily expects Riley to say something about the mess.

Or ask what happened here.

Or ask her to get someone to clean it up.

But instead, the surgeon glances at her wristwatch and asks a single question:

– Didn't you take our schedule…?

And her workday begins to spin.

In the hour before her first operation, Emily combines her job as secretary and janitor: she runs like a madwoman from neurology to the waiting room and back, over and over again, in a hundredth circle.

It's the same thousands of little leaves, slipped into the pockets of her jeans, the same bog-colored turtleneck, the same glances at her – a blank space, a misty grayness, a weed that has sprouted through the concrete.

Emily takes today's schedule – incomprehensible numbers, initials, designations; she scolds herself, hastily converts it on one of the free computers into three columns – time, crew, patient code; and no stupid abbreviations in which nothing can be understood. Thinking about it, she adds blank lines – let them be, she will make unscheduled ones later, it will be for her report and Sara's help.

She takes the folders, takes them to the archives, certifies them, signs them; she pokes a nametag that Harmon brings her – her pride: gray background, photo, Emily Johnson, nurse, Block F.

You want to take a picture and send it to your mother – look, Mom, what I've accomplished, how I can now.

Not to the bottom, but in a straight line.

She runs into Gilmore again and again in the hallways-the surgeon is unaccustomedly gloomy and taciturn, changing coffee cups every hour, frowning while talking on the phone, and a few minutes before the preparation for surgery even begins, he catches Emily by the shoulders and pushes her into his office.

And if Clark is impeccable brevity and polished minimalism, and Charlie is a desperate tribute to hippies, Gilmore turns out to be a real narcissist.

Apparently, he shares an office with two other doctors: the simplicity of the loft-like decor is obscured by a wall full of diplomas and photographs. Emily wouldn't be surprised to see a trophy under the glass – the title "Most Narcissistic Surgeon – 2018" would definitely go to Gilmore.

She cautiously sits down in one of the two chairs by his desk – the same glass one Clark has – and looks questioningly at the doctor.

– We have a problem.

Emily consults a sheet of paper:

– We're scheduled to operate on Miss Mills at eleven. Stem glioma, stage one, along with Dr. Neal's team and…

– She's anemic," interrupts a plump Gilmore in her chair. – And she's Zoroastrian.

– Is that a disease?

– Worse. Religion.

Emily shrugs:

– So?

– Her… uh… God? What do they call their priest over there? Not the point. Anyway, he forbids blood transfusions, and we can't risk putting her under the knife with anemia. – Riley taps his fingers on the tabletop.

– We could use a substitute," Emily suggests. – A preservative…