Impuls

– You don't get it. Her religion forbids medical interventions in general. – He holds out to her a thin folder with just one sheet. – The cells of this crap have already grown into healthy tissue and, in some places, have even replaced it. We've stopped the development, of course, but the glial cells don't want to function normally-so what's inside her can't be stopped. Only to cut it.

Emily remembers the volume of the Bible, carefully lying in the top drawer of the nightstand, and somehow she becomes ashamed.

– Is there really no choice?

– It's a combo, Johnson: Ataxia, hypertension, even nystagmus. They brought her in at night with seizures, put her on the plan in the window, and the plan was busy, but the patient wasn't there. In the morning came her … uh … colleagues, said the good news.

– What about her? – Emily frowns, returning the folder: you can't learn much from one sheet of paper, and the scans and basic papers are probably already in the operating room itself.

– She's a fanatic. – The surgeon presses his lips together. – There's nothing to be done. It's not like we're going to beat her up to get consent. So maybe we shouldn't try to make tea in cold water, but rather rest?

Emily looks at him in surprise.

– You mean," she says slowly, frowning, "just give up? Is that what it turns out to be? What does Dr. Higgins say?

– Higgins? – Gilmore adjusts all the objects on the table, automatically. – What about Higgins? He diagnosed him, scheduled the surgery, what else can we get from him?

– And Moss?

The surgeon's expressive gaze answers all questions.

– But we can't just leave her!

– What are you supposed to do? – Gilmore shakes his hands. – We'll put all the solutions we can, but the operation without the patient's consent is against all the laws.

– Even if her life is at stake?

He thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head slowly and slowly:

– Between religion and life, she chose religion," Riley just says.

– Maybe, at least…

Emily doesn't have time to finish: the internal phone on the surgeon's desk rings, and he picks it up with a jerk, listens to his interlocutor, and then, without saying goodbye, puts the flimsy plastic back in its place.

– She's having a seizure that not even twenty cc's of nemiazine would relieve. – He rubs his temples. – It's either anesthesia or death.

– But how…? – Emily opens her eyes wide. – How?

– Operate," a familiar voice comes from behind her.

Emily turns around.

Clark was leaning against the door frame, pale as a sheet, only a feverish blush barely showing on her cheekbones, and her eyes gleaming sickly and wet. Her bloodless, dry lips were slightly open, her head tilted, a trademark gesture the surgeon managed even in this state.

And Emily also somehow knows that Clark now has icy hands.

She's not wearing a robe, as if she were a visitor, not a doctor, and it's damn unusual to see a multicolored striped sweater several sizes larger than hers instead of a T-shirt – her frozen wrists are hidden in the wide cuffs of her sleeves.

Other than that, Clark is as perfect as ever: black jeans, pumps, a thin bracelet chain visible through the coarse knitting of the sweater.

Emily thinks that women like that must have been the reason wars were fought.

Gilmore sighs heavily and longingly, runs a hand through his red hair, ruffling it.

– We can't," he says.

– No, we can," Clark argues. – We not only can. We have to.

– She doesn't consent," Emily inserts. – Without consent…

– Are you asking her to marry you? – the neurosurgeon suddenly asks.

– E. No?

– Are you asking me now?

– About what?

– Marriage.

– I answer. – Slightly taken aback by this conversation, Emily begins to crumple the fabric of her turtleneck in her hands.

Clark brushes her off and turns his gaze to Gilmore:

– Get the serum ready. Just so they don't get pi

– But what do we tell her?

– We'll treat it as an emergency intervention. We save a life, not a belief in it. – Clark shrugs his shoulders. – What will Moss do? Fire her? For God's sake. They'll write a couple of complaints, we'll send all the results… Just you know what?

– What?

– I bet they won't," the neurosurgeon smirks. – Tell them she survived by a miracle. Neil, really, he's going to get cocky…

Emily is torn apart, pulled to the sides: here is her God, long settled in her heart, an unshakable faith, lines from the Bible by heart; and here is the work, the saved life, a sense of the rightness of what is happening.

And which side is right – she doesn't know, only feels that the scales are equal: that's probably why she doesn't hold back and asks:

– But what about her choice…?

– Do you want to poke religion at me? – Clark turns sharply to her. – Then you shouldn't be here! – She barked. – And until you buy a robe, forget about surgery!

Emily is at a loss: yes, she said a stupid thing, but she finds Clark's reaction… scary?

And unfair.

The resentment of bitter black branches sprouts from the vertebrae, entangles the bones, squeezes, gives more and more shoots – thin and whipped twigs with metastatic leaves, suffocating, stuffy, hot; comes to the throat – presses on important points, blossoms poisonous flowers.

Clark says something else, throwing around words that hurt her delicate unprotected skin, repeating them as if they were a stumbling block, as if they were the reason she cried yesterday – the reason a bloody piece of cloth is now lying in her office.

As if she hadn't been the one who had laid her head on Emily's shoulder.

Treacherously hot tears come to her eyes, hold there for a few more seconds, and then tear down, leaving glistening streaks on her cheeks.