Текст книги "Impuls"

Автор книги: Aster

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And dots.

Mel says:

– You got off easy, Sarah's got three in there – all on her hands.

An outsider would have thought it was children, but Emily knows that one of her colleagues has had three deaths. Not that death scares her – in hospitals, death is always wandering the halls looking for its own room – but it must be a stressful time to lose your mind.

Or not.

Already as she walks away, slipping past Olivia, the perpetually charged battery from the front desk, she hears her holler.

And, fixing a mop of curly, perfectly coiffed blond hair, she smiles and hands Emily a form folded in half:

– Dr. Harmon said to tell you he's expecting you in the operating room tomorrow.

She doesn't seem to have two days off.

* * *

Emily is embarrassed to admit, but she's never been in a real surgery. No, of course, college internships meant attendance, but it was one thing to be in the operating room with a supervisor, another to be in the operating room with doctors like that.

What it is about them she doesn't know; maybe it's because she's never worked with surgeons, or maybe it's because Clark-who-who-is-no-name and Moss-who-is-always-evil seem like little gods in this vast system called Royal London Hospital.

On the morning before surgery, she wrinkles in front of her locker, buttoning her robe at random, tucking unruly strands into a bun, and checking several times. A piece of paper rustles in his pocket – the form Olivia gave him, time and number: two o'clock in the afternoon, room seventy-four.

Mel jokes wickedly: like a date, by golly – and hands out a hirsute suit in a rustling bag. He adds, "They'll put the rest of the sterile part on you there. Smiles: some experience, if not the greatest, but experience. Rebecca looks crookedly out from under her false eyelashes, and Emily unwittingly wondered if they let her into the operating room…

At the exit of the office nurses meet Dr. Gilmore – the same whom Johnson ran into a few days ago – and politely greeted. Strangely, the doctor, rushing through the corridors, shouting something into the tube about a paternity test, is now a swarthy, almost dark-skinned man with a short red haircut and a nametag sloppily tucked in his pocket.

– Clark asked me to keep an eye on you," Riley says loudly as they walk leisurely down the halls. – She might skin you if I let you out of her sight! – he adds. – Now, where was I… Oh, yes, they'll wake her up to find out if she's been damaged in some way by rummaging around in her head. Don't you worry about it! – Gilmore pats her on the shoulder.

– I'm not.

– We've got the best anesthesiologist in the hospital, by the way! And Higgins promised to stop by, but knowing him, he'll forget.

They go up to neurology, and Emily's legs begin to shake. A metal staircase into the operculum, a circular branching corridor, and they're inside.

She thought it would be sterile, white, and quiet; in fact, the operating room is hardly quieter than the wards themselves: there are white coats everywhere, conversations, and solid doors with glowing numbers – from the seventieth to the eightieth. Separating them from the operating room itself is the washroom, a small space with a hand basin, shelves, and one tin bench.

Emily washes her hands, the fingers, the interdigital spaces, the back and nails of her left hand, in quick, honed strokes; then she moves to her right hand. The smell of sterility and ammonia hangs in the air; wipes rustle; cerigel is rubbed.

A nurse, fidgeting at the lockers, helps her put on her top gown, fixes her sleeves and tightens her sash; Emily feels like an important surgeon and, for a moment, closes her eyes and imagines that it is she who will perform the operation.

But the gloom quickly dissipates – Clark's loud, sonorous voice can be heard even through the heavy doors:

– Finishing balancing!

– Doesn't he tune himself? – Emily asks in a whisper, trying to stay close to Gilmore.

– Trust no one," Riley shrugs.

As soon as the door behind them clicks shut, Clark turns his whole body around, holding a thin metal wire in his hands:

– What the hell have you been poking around in there? We'll get started soon," and immediately retreats to the other end of the room in quick strides.

– Welcome to hell, Johnson," Riley winks and, whistling, retreats to the operating table.

Chapter 5

the word does not heal him, does not resurrect him,

it does not give hope, it does not torture, it does not kill,

Here lays it on a new bandage,

and it presses hard,

it thickens viscous,

it squeezes, it rubs, it pokes,

it melts elusively on the delicate wound,

bleeding under the crust,

leaving a nasty tang of questioning.

"will I live, doctor?" -

and cauterizes.

Emily spins her head, trying to look around her.

In the middle of the operating room there is a huge plastic and steel structure, flashing all the colors of the rainbow and constantly making a nasty, sharp beeping sound. Emily recalls: it seems that in the textbook this structure was called a monoplanar angiographic system and was depicted much more simply than in real life. Johnson can almost hear the advertising slogans in her head: six square screens, an X-ray tube, a seat for the patient – the latest equipment allows you to penetrate the most complex areas of the brain.

A girl is already lying on the bed with a movable leg – still under anesthesia, and the anesthesiologist is chirping in his high chair with wheels (Riley whispers in Emily's ear that his name is Dylan). He has another pair of screens next to him, on a movable tripod; a large computer-like keyboard, and a whole bunch of wires.

Everything around Emily is wrapped in sterile film: the enormous microscope Clark is fiddling with; the surgical bench with the nurse standing by; and even the anesthesiologist's chair. The man sitting in it is talking so loudly that his voice echoes off the walls:

– Look at this! – he shouts in admiration, touching the stem of the microscope. – It's a Leica! You don't even have to do anything with it, just stare and enjoy it! My girl," Dylan adds fondly, patting the plastic.

Clark raises an eyebrow.

– That's what you said about the last one, Kemp," she says wryly.

– «Yuck,» he says with a grudge. – That one wasn't as graceful and deep as…

– Don't go on. – Clark walks over to the tool table. – What have you laid out for me here? Why would I want this? I'm going to kill you!

– It's not me," Dylan waves his hands. – That's the new nurse Andrew brought in. The one with the big tits! – he whispers loudly, pointing to the girl standing in the distance.

– And a small brain. I don't need half of that. – Emily can almost feel Clark's lips pursing. – I'm not going to do an LP. And why couldn't we just split this up into two tables?

– Need I remind you to fire her? – Riley's voice booms.

– I'll think about it. – Clark's approaching the patient. – Are we ready? Then let's get started.

The shadowless lights flare and bright white light floods the operating room, making it look like Purgatory. A minute later, there is a click, and the film-wrapped docking station with an iPhone inserted into it begins to play unobtrusive music.

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.

– Beginning the trepanation," Riley informs her.

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 connected to the skull through the periosteum that has not yet been removed.

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 announces. – It's a shitty cut," she adds. – It needs to be cleaned.

– 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?

– Because we don't have any?

– Crohn's to me! – Neurosurgeon commands. – Let's put her back together. What are we talking about? Oh, here we go. We could get someone to do some moonlighting. And this one," she points the needle at Kate, "how did she get in here in the first place?

– You forgot to mention how she made it through half the surgery… Okay, I'm closing.

– I'll think about it later. – Clark rolls his eyes.

– After the surgery?

– After she was fired. Johnson, what are you digging into?

*

Emily walks down the corridor, and everything inside of her is bubbling. Her fingers clutch the envelope: fresh X-rays, looking like a subway map, to take to Higgins, and then give some more folders to Mel and maybe go back to the usual routine.

Routine.

When did she start calling her regular job a chore? Probably the moment she first entered the operating room, smelled sterility, metal, and the subtle, subtle scent of Dr. Gilmore's perfume.

Mel always said: you can't straighten your back here, the walls are narrow, the ceiling is low; if you want to get up, you'll just smash your forehead; forget about surgeries, name forms, surgical help: this is not our department, not my concern, not your future. Just prop up the ceiling with your forehead, and go to work, bent over.

They're all the same – the girls who didn't go to school; they dropped out, abandoned, couldn't get to the higher caste, to the next rung. They couldn't become surgical nurses, they couldn't turn into interns, they couldn't work their way up to the senior ranks. All your life you have to carry patients, give them injections, put them on drips, and don't even think about anything else.

There's snow all around, and the roads are blocked. There's no way to get there.

And now Emily's in surgery.

It's like taking the sun out of the sky and putting it in your pocket: it warms and burns and shines, and there's no hiding or escape. Let it be a mere passing of tools from hand to hand, let it be; it is important, too; Rebecca would die of envy!..!

But she will not tell: the suns in her pockets are not told; they are cherished and kept, not allowed to get dusty. It is only hers, deserved; and it will be a reminder of this day.

And of her own importance.

Emily strides confidently down the hall, and the sun warms her pocket.

*

– Listen, Laurie. – Riley Gilmore holds the neurosurgeon by the sleeve. – I'll tell you something's not right here.

– It's just a fainting spell," Clark waves off. – Let's find another one.

– She's Moss!

– Jesus, Riley. – The woman laughs. – Do you see everything as a universal conspiracy? She's just a little girl not used to the sight of blood. Moss is a bastard, of course, but not that bad.

– I don't like it," Gilmore says. – It shouldn't have happened.

– But it did. – She stops abruptly at the coffee machine. – Got any change?

Riley rummages through her jeans pockets and pulls out a few coins, and the round silver pounds disappear into Clark's hands faster than cards from a magician.

– You're like my wife," he mutters. – You take all the money, too.

– You're divorced! – Coins fall into the machine with a clinking sound.

– That's why I'm divorced. – Gilmore leans his shoulder against the wall. – Will you go to Ray for a replacement?

– Pow! – Clark takes out a plastic cup. – No, I'd rather pick one up myself.

– You know the whole staff. – Riley can barely contain herself from a quip. – Ask Harmon, and he'll send you someone… normal.

The woman snorts.

– I'm not crazy to ask James for something like that. His interns are nothing but trouble. No," she stirs her coffee thoughtfully, "you need someone else. More… fresh? Without all those fancy letters after the name, you know what I mean. And someone we know.

– There's no such thing. – Gilmore pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his inside pocket, looks at it sadly, and hides it back. – You love the letters.

Clark is silent for a minute, then says thoughtfully:

– Look, I think I know.

Chapter 6

it will all be over soon. it will be over, I said. I will stop going to memorable places, like going to the Titanic for the hundredth time, I will remember who I am, I will forget who I have not become.

It seems to Emily that the world, which until then seemed gray, as if in defiance of all laws begins to lose even more colors: a few days pass after the operation, and the sun in her pocket dims.

She doesn't believe in fairy tales: she just can't get lucky every time; her luck just flashed and burned out like a match. Maybe for some Rebecca or Dayna, something like this would have been routine, just a small touch in everyday life, but for her, being part of something-albeit a tiny team-was a new, unexplored feeling.

And in the grayness of the days, in the sameness of the minutes, the slowness of the hours, Emily returns and returns to that feeling of the heaviness of the instruments in her hands, Clark's hoarse voice, Dylan's jokes, and the smell of the operating room.

It must be some kind of jolt: Emily feels like a ball – painfully falling and bouncing off the ground, she soars upward. And even if this feeling lasts only a few minutes, it becomes something more than just an awareness of herself.

Except now she's flying down again, and no one can tell if the ground is there.

One morning she doesn't have time to brew her own coffee for work – or maybe she leaves her thermos mug at home on purpose – and walks into Connors' coffee. The small coffee shop on the corner of Maples Place and Raven Row, which occupies a tiny square space, consists of a bar counter and a few chairs and is filled with a song about cough syrup. An elderly barista – Mr. Connors himself – is singing along, wiping down the bulky coffee machine.

– A latte, please. – Emily puts four pounds on the counter. – To go.

A large Kraft glass with colored lettering on the plastic lid appears in front of her a few minutes later; Emily pours brown sugar into it, puts in cinnamon and chocolate, and then inserts a straw – the unusual way she borrowed it from some movie. At first, she was afraid she'd burn herself, but lattes are rarely too hot.

The smell of coffee and cookies is soothing, and Emily lets herself linger at the counter for a moment, gazing out a large window with paper airplanes glued to it, at Turner Street. A stack of colored squares is freely available on the windowsill, and Emily, unable to resist, folds an unsophisticated figure.

And then – very unexpectedly for herself – she pulls out a pen and writes on the fold: NEVROLOGY. A piece of scotch tape and the bright orange airplane finds its place among others like it.

Emily herself does not know why she did it, but Mr. Connors does not say a word, but only grins into his gray beard, and Johnson feels a little better.

The door creaks open, and two voices, male and female, fill the coffee shop with frantic energy:

– What, R&H coffee no longer works for us?

– We need to drive more carefully.

– How did you tie these factors together?!

Still looking out the window, Emily freezes in place: she recognizes the Clark couple perfectly. In the reflection, she sees Charlie's disheveled curls and the perfectly styled (by chaos and wind) blond hair of the neurosurgeon whose name she never learned.

– Double, and more caffeine," Clark voices unnamed. – And for him…

– Milk and syrup! – Charlie finishes.

– No coffee? – The barista says cautiously.

– Half a cup," the psychiatrist graciously allows.

Emily lowers her gaze and pulls her head into her shoulders, trying to blend into the space; but trouble evades her – Clark-whose-woman quickly picks up her cup, says something to her brother in a low voice, and leaves, closing the door carefully behind her. Charlie is left waiting, leaning against the bar and dropping the incessant calls on the phone every now and then.

And then…

– Miss Johnson, I know it's not the best omen to see my sister in the morning, but I thought you didn't believe in them.

– Who? – Emily turned, blushing to the tips of her ears.

– In omens," Charlie repeats patiently.

He didn't look like a doctor at all, Emily thought to herself as she glanced around him, his short parka, his backpack, his worn sneakers. His dark eyes reflected the light from the light bulbs that hung from the ceiling like garlands. Charlie sprinkles his coffee generously with cinnamon, adds sugar, stirs with a thin wooden spoon. He doesn't even look at Emily, but it's as if she can feel his gaze fixed on her, studying her constantly.

– I'm sorry.

Charlie waves it away:

– Never mind. Have you made a wish?

– What?

Why, why does he make her feel so stupid when she's around him?

– You should have a stronger coffee," Clark laughed. – Origami. – He points to the paper airplanes. – They write their wishes and glue them to the glass. As soon as it comes true, they take the airplane off. You didn't know that?

Emily shakes her head.

– It's my first time here. Somehow… it wrote itself, – she answers honestly. – Do you think it's stupid?

– No." Charlie shakes his head. – No," Charlie shakes his head. "It's great. That you believe in something like that. We all need a little bit of magic sometimes. – He closes his glass with the lid and heads for the exit. – Have a nice day, Miss Johnson.

The door slams shut.

Emily scolds herself: she should have said something, maybe been more polite, said hello, for example. But she doesn't have time for self-consciousness – she grabs her coffee and storms out of the coffee shop: she's minutes away from the start of her work day.

But now she knows what kind of coffee they like in the Clark family.

* * *

– Johnson, get in here now!

Melissa, who was just telling Rebecca off, turns to Emily. She looks menacing: in her hand, the head nurse has another mountain of files – paper, stapled heavy staples, they balance on the bend of her elbow.

– Don't change your clothes!

Emily frantically goes over all of her screw-ups in her head – she could get fired for anything, just as she could get promoted. Forgotten bandages, unthrown garbage, even a stain on her robe – Royal Hospital is too strict about that.

I should have said hello to Clark.

While Rebecca removes the top layer of makeup and Dana adjusts her high stockings, Melissa stands across from Emily and hands her a sheet in a clear file.

– I just got it," she informs her. – Clark really asked to have you transferred to neurology, they never got anyone there after they got sick. So take the thirteen and don't forget to check in. – Grumbles: – That's how you come to work, and a man's gone off the staff. Who will work for you, I ask you?

– What?

BOOM!

It was the ball, falling downward at lightning speed, that bounced off the ground and ricocheted back into the sky.

Emily's legs shook.

Charlie. Why Charlie? They'd only seen each other a couple of times, hadn't even spoken to each other; it would have been more realistic to get a transfer request from Harmon or Higgins, though they probably didn't even know her name. But Charlie?

Charlie Clark!

Who asked very much for a translation.

Translate!

Emily feels something burning in her chest.

She knows how lingering it is, waiting to be noticed, to be taken under the wing of experienced doctors, to be given a real job, to be guided and forced to learn. Dana is winning over Powell, Rebecca is hovering around Dr. Campbell, the head of the emergency room, Sarah has been promoted to assistant pediatrician and now carries her coffee and keeps diaries.

It's all so mundane, so transparent, but it's still happiness, even if it's simple as hell, stupid as hell. Not to be involved in endless running from ward to ward, not to be on everyone's beck and call, but to have wards and patients to know by sight; to be useful, to be needed.

And then Emily realizes that's the end.

Because if you're noticed, you're no longer invisible.

And she doesn't know if she needs it that way; because when they take off your mojo of invisibility, all that light-reflecting foil, you become someone else. Not yourself.

The doubt must be written all over her face. So Melissa puts her hand on her shoulder and adds a little softer than usual:

– You did good, Johnson.

Charlie.

Charlie Clark.

Rebecca shoves her lipstick into her locker in a rage.

* * *

Emily clutches the cup of cold coffee in her hands, somehow shoves her things from the locker into a large paper bag, picks up her Crocs, and leaves without saying goodbye.

She knows it's not a new world, not a fairy-tale transformation from beggar to princess, but it's at least a step. Maybe this glass corridor leads her to a new life.

A neon-lit BLOCK F sign, a pair of small staircases, familiar loft trim, ivory doors. A thin woman's voice comes from Donald Ray's reception room: Table for four, I know it's Friday, but it's for Professor Ray, you know? Fine.

Emily squints a little: table for two on Sunday, the best; but it's for Miss Johnson, you understand me, don't you? Deal.

The private secretary in her head adds cheekily: Just don't talk to her about work, she doesn't like it.

All dreams are quickly shattered by reality: apart from the break room, nothing really changes, and if this was a life elevator, it's only horizontal – her duties remain almost the same, only less chaotic. Maybe she'll get a couple hundred pounds added to her paycheck; maybe she'll meet new people.

She's lucky-the door is ajar, as if it hadn't been locked on purpose, and there's no need to look for someone with a pass. Dr. Harmon is still asleep on the couch – he doesn't seem to have changed his clothes or combed his hair or slept once in the past week. Emily clears her throat: She doesn't have the key to her new locker or his number, and she needs help right away.

Harmon jumps up instantly: One second and he's on his feet, looking at her through his unique tiny glasses. There are questions in his eyes. Lots of questions.

– Hello. – Emily decides it would be a good idea to start with the basics of politeness. – I was transferred here from the sanitation department. – She holds out a piece of paper. – I'll be here now.

– Keep it," James waves her off. – Who needs paper, you can't cure, ha-ha, you can't cure, can you?

Emily, who's forgotten the way he talks, nods cautiously.

– That's what I say… So, Johnson, from Mel, well, that's great, Johnson, congratulations, you've made it, ha-ha, you heard that, huh? People. No one's a man around here, ha-ha, we're all oxen plowing fields.

He disappears behind the door to the dressing room, and Emily has no choice but to follow him.

Along the walls stretches a row of very wide lockers with wooden doors. Despite the unreliability of the construction (one bump and the closet collapses with the door), it looks stylish – brick-white walls and dark brown, almost black, furniture. Instead of benches, there is a long, stacked couch with backs. Another door at the end of the room leads to the showers.

There is no separation between men and women; when she asks him how to change, Harmon smiles oddly, shrugs his shoulders nervously, and speaks in a cursory voice:

– So you get into your uniform here, and you wash yourself there if you have to. Here's the key, you take care of it – it opens all the doors, just like Alice's, ha-ha, great. – He takes the key out of an empty locker and gives it to her. – Always lock the door, so keep it tidy, we like tidy here. The kitchen is for the whole ward, and these rooms are for the juniors only, okay? So even Ray can fry his own eggs for breakfast, ha-ha, eggs, here, with us. And they can take a shower if they're too lazy to go to the OB, they have their own, they're lazy… So, give me your badge and I'll make you a pass, don't lose it, it's not recoverable from the juniors. Understand?

Emily nods frantically.

– How many colleagues do I have?

– Twenty? Maybe twenty-five. I haven't counted," Harmon grumbles. – There are only the younger ones here: nurses and assistants, lab assistants and interns have their own room in another building, yes, it's a ten-minute walk to it. And now it's probably okay to work…

He takes her old nametag from her, mutters something to himself, adjusts his glasses and leaves. Emily sees his crumpled after a nap white coat, and involuntarily thought about the history of Harmon: somehow he became like this?

And is ashamed: they are taught from childhood equality, and she shamelessly singles someone out.

She throws her things away, changes, drinks her cold coffee in a gulp, smiles into the void. The locker room is warm and quiet, even the water doesn't rumble through the pipes. The narrow upper windows are tightly closed, the lower ones are curtained with light curtains; and all that light has a calming effect on her.

Three hundred and thirteen, then.