Текст книги "Impuls"

Автор книги: Aster

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Chapter 11

Just wait. In the black coat of mist,

For yourself, for others who are not,

The black dot floats stubbornly to the goal.

I'll get there, and we'll light the dawn.

Riley laughs and pats Dylan on the shoulder; there are stray, lively sparks in his green eyes; just the same in his bright ruby hair. The white robe is lost against the surgeon's dyed-up, yellow T-shirt, blue-blue jeans, green sneakers; Riley is the living embodiment of the rainbow, a blob of energy and light.

Under the wide sleeves of her robe, she sees a dozen tattoos, from constellations to portraits, from hieroglyphs to runes, and the anesthesiologist Kemp, sitting nearby, pokes fun at them, saying, "What's the point of your pictures?

– I," he says proudly, "have a mermaid on my shoulder. Because I love the sea and women! And who's that, Queen Elizabeth?

Dylan is swarthy, tall, whipping; he hides dark curls under a bandana, now and then touches a scar on his lower lip, as if he is not used to it; thin eyebrows, protruding cheekbones – an anesthesiologist looks like a pirate who just came ashore; and black hirsute suit, worn contrary to all rules of sterility, only adds resemblance to this image.

In front of Clark sits Sara – a senior operating room nurse: Asian appearance, haughty look even a neurosurgeon would envy; black hair gathered in a high ponytail, leopard-rimmed glasses, thin fingers tapping impatiently on her knee. Sarah yawns into a tiny fist, waves her long eyelashes, and gracefully throws her leg over her leg, exposing a thin strip of snow-white skin beneath her short skirt.

The varnish of her high-heeled shoes reflects the light for a second as Emily enters the office.

Four people in white coats stare at the nurse as one – still the same stretchy turtleneck, still the same oversized jeans; no hint of belonging to their society.

Clark – now out of habit – grimaces disapprovingly, and the comparison to the squashed cockroach reappears in Emily's mind.

She slipped sideways behind the counter just outside the entrance, trying to hide between the closet and the wall, but she got confused in her own feet, almost fell on her side, and, holding the still unpacked hirsute suit against her, she pressed her shoulder blades against the door.

Clark raises an eyebrow.

Emily's palms are sweating.

The portable negatoscope, a screen on a tripod, flashes up; Clark rises from his seat and, moving it slightly to the middle of the room, points to six images in two rows in turn.

– Let's call these patients X, Y and Z," she begins. – The bottom is before, the top is after. One of them we recently operated on, another is on the waiting list for a planned, and this one," she points to the darkest one, "even tried to discharged. So that's three people. – Clark steps aside. – Who's to say what they have in common?

Riley squints, looking closely; Emily takes a tiny step forward, too, trying to remember where she's seen this before, but the surgeon beats her to it:

– This isn't the trio with no brain, is it?

Clark nods contentedly.

– Like three monkeys," Sarah adds. – Can't see. Can't hear. And won't say anything to anyone.

– All of our alphabetists opened up bleeding a few hours ago. – Clark points to the upper scans. – See, this one's clean, and this one's ruptured. Three aneurysms, all in different places, but at almost the same time. We've done both CT scans and MRIs and glucose before; they took readings in half an hour and everything was fine.

– It doesn't work that way. – Dylan gets up from his seat and walks over to the negatoscope. – Maybe we missed something?

– Arteriosclerosis? AH? Something hereditary? – Riley rubs the bridge of his nose.

– Fingers to the sky. – Clark presses his lips together. – No one remembers anything. But everyone knows we screwed up, because right here," she points to the lower right picture, "we opened up her skull to look at the contents, and we didn't really find anything.

– Yeah, because everything in her head has already been checked.

– Maybe the anesthesia had something to do with it. – Kemp gets close to the scans. – Damn, why is it so hard to see…?

– Three at a time? – Clark shakes his head. – On one, yes. The others weren't even touched.

– That's weird. They have no brains, and their… What do they do with them, by the way?

– They keep them on drips," Clark shrugged. – The one you can see from behind Dylan is getting treatments. They've got another one being prepared for discharge, but it's a long story.

– Stress? – Riley suggests right away. – We couldn't have screwed up before the surgery. Maybe Higgins got it wrong. Didn't take into account the risk factors…

– Too many factors," Dylan snorts. – Three arteries burst at the same time in almost the same place. Something triggered it. Something that was performed at the same time. Some kind of laser correction? What do we all have people do in surgery?

– Appendicitis? Plasty? Accident?

– Negative," cuts off the anesthesiologist. – You can't connect appendicitis to the brain. Except theoretically.

– That's what Moss thinks," Clark replies thoughtfully. – He thinks it's just a coincidence.

– Is he furious? – Sara, who has been silent up to now, snorts.

– Lucky for us, it's parliamentary convention in Belgravia today," replies the neurosurgeon grimly. – Otherwise he would have been here by now. In the meantime, he demands that we find the cause ourselves.

– He's dumping the diagnosticians' work on us? – Dylan slumps back onto the couch. – Fuck him. What's there to find out? Confirm the biohours match. Let him prove otherwise.

– Tell him yourself.

– I'm not even going to talk…

Dylan slaps his palm against his palm and goes back to the couch, Riley jumps up from his seat, points to Sarah; Clark silently crosses his arms over his chest, listening and not interfering.

Emily frowns.

The projection spins in her head: here's the brain, here's the part of it that's been removed, here's the aneurysm, the hemorrhage.

The blood runs through the arteries, making a circle – over and over and over again.

Emily walks in a straight line.

Fingers touch the scans – cold thermoplastic, blurry images – leading the widest part, bumping into obstructions. Silent here, unable to hear here, unable to see here.

He remembers, spins in his head the few days he spent with his patients: CT scans, MRIs, neurotomography, general blood tests.

Something eludes her.

The memory tosses: work in nephrology, IVs, ultrasounds, glass vials; give-and-take-no-messages; two on dialysis, three on transplants, seven hundred and forty-nine on the list; and everyone needs help, but no one does; only Higgins runs around with his patients, back and forth, muttering that he should hand out head pills, because…

– …we have to check the kidneys.

She says it so softly that her vocal cords don't even strain, but the office is almost ominously silent in a second.

– What?

– We have to check the kidneys," Emily repeats with a little more confidence. – We only looked at the head, right? And the back of the other one, I remember. They might have ADPBP," she explains. – Renal failure, but with extrarenal manifestations. Large numbers of cysts increase the risks, right? After all, the kidneys are directly connected to critical arteries. The cyst bursts, all the crap from it gets into the bloodstream, goes to the surgically weakened brain and sticks somewhere. The artery says «yuck, yuck, yuck» – and gets inflamed, trying to reject it. We need to look at the kidneys and clean the blood. If it's confirmed, send in a cut. And three at the same time-" Emily thinks for a moment, but the answer comes to herself: "And if they have not two kidneys, but one…?

She flashes an embarrassed look to the floor, as if she's hoping there's a hole underneath her to fall through.

Because Clark has already opened her mouth to blow her theory to smithereens.

Damn, damn, damn, why did she say that?

– Not bad," Lorraine says suddenly. – I'll send out an inquiry; I'll let you know when I get the results.

Emily forgets how to breathe.

– "Really?

Riley shrugs it off: this is no place for praise or laurels, she said the right thing – it's great, maybe saved someone's life, but otherwise – who needs this desire to stand out?

Here they sit, the four best of them, talking; bouncing from topic to topic: Gilmore had three with gunshot wounds, Demp was anesthetizing, Davis was operating; who knows what, says Riley, why are they taking them from central to us, they could have taken them to London Bridge, the world would not have collapsed, they have a pond of surgeons there, but I what, Gilmore beat his chest, like I was hired as Haron, from one realm to another.

– And my second anesthesiologist's gone," complained Demp. – I'll take Harmon, it's high time he changed his place, he's been sitting too long, let him be a resuscitator now; they can do without him in perfusion, it's no big loss. What is AIC? It's a ten-button design, you just sit there and push it; no, Harmon's not stupid enough to push buttons. We'll have it, won't you, Laurie?

Lorraine shakes her head, smiling:

– I like James. – His eyes flash with warmth. – Lure him over to us, statute says there should be five, and there are four of us, we'll formalize the anesthesiologist rate, still higher than what we have now.

Dylan glows.

– Moss was talking about some conference," Sarah pursed her lips. – Handing out pamphlets a couple of days ago.

– Yeah, I heard. – Clark sits back in his chair and swings open his laptop. – Ottawa, right? – She clicks the mouse. – Transatlantic. – Crooked. – I hope they send the first one. I don't want to bounce eight hours over the ocean for a couple of days whining about how badly we're doing our job.

– What's that? – Dylan asks.

– Anything," laconic answers neurosurgeon. – Neil will go, he has less problems than we do. Without us, everyone here would die. – She snorts.

They are alone.

Clark takes off his robe, deftly tosses it on the coat rack next to the door, runs a hand through his hair, taps his heel on the parquet, and dives headlong into his laptop.

The printer rustles softly, spits out sheets; the wind rages outside the window, the rain breaks against the tinted glass; on the black nightstand without a speck of dust lie three maps – those X, Y, and Z; crumpled cushions on the couch, an unsteady chair, papers scattered across Clark's desk.

And Lorraine – for the second time that day, she's got everyone's attention. She straightened, squared her shoulders, stretched her arms, waving her wrists; the thin chain of her bracelet jingled, and Emily's chest whimpered.

– We need to prepare the third," Clark says suddenly, not taking his eyes off the monitor. – In an hour and a half, there's an elective to remove the tumor. Get me a list of the days ahead of time, I need somewhere to put Cameron, there's a stage two. Get on it.

Emily thinks fast – nods, takes her phone out of her pocket, sends directions in text messages to herself: stage three, hour and a half, list, Cameron.

– Mark's birthday is Sunday. – Clark rubs his temples. – Needs a gift. Moss needs to send the stats from last month.

– Stats on what? – Emily clarifies.

– Your lack of intelligence, Johnson," Clark snaps back. – Use your brain. Mortality, of course.

Emily shuts up.

– Help Sarah with the paperwork, she's about to die under the folders. We need to fill them out and bring them to me to sign.

She rises from her chair, stretching – her T-shirt is pulled up, exposing her skin; her ribs protrude heavily forward; Emily sees the outline of her lingerie: lace, she never doubted – as if Clark could wear cheap cotton.

Lorraine walks over to the closet, opens the left flap, and pulls out another folder:

– After the surgery…

The door swings open, banging the handle loudly against the wall, and Emily drops the phone in fright.

Again.

She can almost see the keys shattering, the display hanging from thin wires, the center button flying off into the corner. With a silent owl, she yanks herself behind the cabinet, which is what saves her from the wrath of the interim head of the neurologist.

Andrew flies into the office, and the air around him is saturated with the sweetness of perfume; the white robe is draped imposingly over his shoulders, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing the large dial on his left hand.

A file falls on the table with a clatter.

Clark stares silently at the neurologist.

A minute passes.

Only then does he notice Emily.

– Johnson, not wearing a robe again," he says in a low voice. – What, you forget where you work? With your history, I'm not surprised. How about…

Clark pulls the white cloth off the rack in one motion and throws it over his nurse's shoulders.

Emily takes a deep breath.

Her heart begins to beat desperately; it feels like it's about to burst through her chest, bursting out, falling to the floor as a bloody heap.

The robe still retained the warmth of Lorraine's body, even through the thin turtleneck. Emily pulls it down with her fingertips, letting it slip freely over her shoulders the way all adults do.

And it doesn't go away – it's still there, it's pulsating, it's jumpering; Lorraine says something to Moss, who looks at Emily angrily once more, but turns away; and she still stands there, the white neurosurgeon's robe, touch it, feel it, smell it – quinine, coffee, lemon. Tension, disruption, an uneven rhythm, dry lips in an instant.

Moss walks away, leaving Clark with a folder and a dozen more papers on top.

– Johnson," Lorraine exhales. – Where's the robe?

She still can't move, just squints and shakes her head rapidly; the touch of the fabric against her skin is so pleasant, too pleasant; and Clark, standing an inch away from her, has infinitely gray eyes with black eyeliner; long, stretching lashes to the sky; and ashy-pink lips that speak almost syllables:

– Are you not listening to me again?

– I'm sorry, I… I never bought it. I'm sorry.

The red-hot air subsides, his heart calms, his breathing becomes easier – Clark takes a step back and turns again to the open closet.

– You're lucky he doesn't have a name. – She points to the breast pocket of her robe. – Otherwise, Moss would have taken three skins off you.

– Excuse me.

Clark winks away in surprise:

– Drop it.

Here we go again.

Again.

It's impossible to breathe with Clark, as if the neurosurgeon needs to take all the oxygen from the world in order to breathe.

She changes moods, jumps from «you» to «you», gets angry – and then smiles a minute later; and Emily can't keep up with her, afraid, worried, but feeling the pull.

Clark is an ever-changing shell with an unbending inner core.

And fire.

She just has to say something, so Emily does the unauthorized, the wrong thing – she touches the neurosurgeon's shoulder with her fingertips and says nothing:

– I'm not worth it.

Clark smiles:

– I didn't say that.

* * *

She shouldn't.

She can't.

She doesn't know how.

But she stands in the locker room, inhaling the smell, burying her nose in the white medical gown Clark so kindly lent her for the rest of the day.

So Moss doesn't kill you.

The hirsute suit, unpacked, already on, smells wrong. The chemical, sterilized smell hits her nose, interrupts the lemon and lavender, and makes Emily want to strip naked and wrap herself up, wrap herself in the snow-white fabric.

She is flattering herself: just because it is power, it is fashionable, prestigious, rich; but inside, the first sparks of a fire have already been kindled.

That's just the affection she lacked; that damn admiration for someone, the idolatry, the awe. Clark is just a doctor.

She's just a nurse.

Her nurse.

The surgery is minutes away-the third operating room has been cleaned to a shine, and the instruments spread out on the tables have left a pleasant heaviness in her palms.

And now she's afraid. Scared. Ashamed.

And so she clings to her white coat, unable to control her emotions.

In a straight line.

Not to the bottom.

She locks the robe in her locker and walks out into the pre-op space, where Sarah helps her with her clothes and gloves.

Clark is already here, behind the glass – washing her hands, chatting intermittently with Gilmore standing next to her.

Emily knows the sequence by heart: rubbing her palms together, rubbing the back of her left hand with her right, then the interdigital spaces and inner surfaces, hands in lockstep, thumbs, rotating rubs, circular motions. Long fingers slide over soapy skin – up and down, back and forth.

Gilmore finishes early, wiping his hands, working his nails, applying antiseptic to his hands and forearms, rubbing, telling jokes.

Clark doesn't even smile, just nods, thinking to himself: frowning eyebrows, confident movements.

The whole procedure of putting on a sterile gown, tying it, and pulling on gloves takes no more than thirty seconds. Emily and Sara are in sync: pull it up there, tie it there. Johnson smiles inwardly: She remembers that Clark likes to tie the sash on the side, so she very quickly slips one piece of fabric into the other. All she gets in response is a snort.

Sarah clips on the optics: binocular magnifying glasses with flashlights; Emily adjusts-checks the masks and hats; Kemp fidgets nonchalantly in her chair, whistling a tune. Harmon bustles about – urgently pulled from his department, delighted by the news of his promotion, he runs around with a huge spread-out form, recording the data.

There's a woman on the operating table; the shaved area of her head is marked with lines – a perpendicular line from the bridge of her nose to the base of her skull and a line connecting her ears. The whole space is squared, so it's easier to work with a scalpel.

– I forgot," said Dylan. – Are we going to wake her up?

– You're out of your mind," he replies.

– I was joking.

Emily takes one last look at Mayo's table – the sterile surface is lined with instruments; this time there's nothing superfluous, everything's in strict order. Gilmore has one just like it, only with recesses for electrical instruments. Dylan pushes the buttons; the screens flash, showing an image; Clark finishes calibrating.

– Tumor in quadrant six, fits like a fuse, preparing for additional bone resection.

The Leica buzzes, Sarah takes her place at Gilmore's, Emily becomes a few centimeters away from Clark.

Harmon looms behind them, muttering to himself about some fascias and squares.

Slowly, slowly, the screen renders a grid; Clark tilts her head sideways and – Emily is sure – with her lips slightly open, lets out a short exhale.

– Here we go.

Chapter 12

I'm tired of being afraid of you.

it's the finish line.

Let's call it a draw.

If I fall in love again

shoot me,

– You know, when I first finished my internship, I was assigned to assist some surgeon. So there was a team of ten, and when he said «scalpel,» all ten of them repeated like idiots: "Scalpel. Then the surgeon was like, «Clamp!» and then they were like, «Clamp, clamp, clamp…»

– That's so you don't forget what you need, genius.

– Genius, genius, genius…

– Can you saw in silence?

– Tell my ex-wife that," Riley mutters. – Dissecting tissue.

The surgeon's entire craniotomy operation takes no more than thirty minutes: Sara silently, without comment, hands him the instruments; now the tissue is removed, a dilator is placed, auxiliary openings are made. The sharp sound of a saw, and the smell of sawed bone hits my nose.

Emily forceps pick up a fragment of skull, dips it into a bath of special solution, returns it to its place – in perfect synchrony Clark and Gilmore seal the bleeding vessels. The smell of burned flesh and heated metal.

– Current.

More than anything, Emily fears her hands will start to shake; but, contrary to her fears, she holds on even more than firmly: handing over the device, casting a glance at the socket, another at the screen. She can't catch Clark's attention: the neurosurgeon is fully immersed in the Leica while Gilmore talks to Harmon.

– Clamping and taking off at once with a hat.

Emily prepares for coagulation: she serves a small, film-wrapped laser; Sarah puts a gauze drain, blotting it out, Gilmore laments that we can't use a dilator – that would make the access area even larger.

The gauze is barely changed in time: the amount of blood in the area decreases too slowly; some of the many vessels are too thin for the laser and bleed desperately.

– It sucks," Gilmore concludes.

– Let's not go back, it's about twenty minutes of work," Clark says. – Dry it.

Sarah removes the thin tube from the machine once more, presses the button with her foot; the drainage machine begins to vibrate, taking in air; a little further away, Gilmore already places the clamps that have been applied, stopping the blood flow on the neoplasm.

– I laser," Clark says. – We'll clean at different stages, what's at risk, we'll scrape out by hand. That's it, we can close.

The pungent smell that hits her nose makes Emily's eyes go dark for a second, and both Clark and Gilmore stick to the eyepieces of the Leica. Johnson sees all their manipulations on the screen: here's Clark picking up the tumor, and here the beam of the laser scalpel flashes, illuminating the image with red light. Gilmore deftly rakes the affected areas and tosses them into the cuvette, the very small remnants picked up by Sarah's drain.

Emily sighs: it seems there is no more work for her – so she takes the metal container, changing it for another; she watches: Clark acts quickly, almost sharply, clearly moving around the neoplasm – from edge to center, as if carving a snowflake.

This goes on for about twenty minutes – under the reddish-white tumor the affected part of the brain becomes visible, and Emily hurriedly delivers a coagulant laser – Sarah, standing next to Gilmore, personally «glues» the rest of the vessels.

From the second lap, everyone switches places, and the drainage goes to Emily – she puts the tube on the other side, watching the screens carefully: she has almost no access to the wound directly, but she still confidently places the traction on the bleeding areas. And so they walk in a chain: Clark in front with the laser scalpel, followed by Gilmore, also with the laser, but with less power, Sarah with the neurosurgical tweezers and Emily with the drainage, as if picking up the dust left by them.

– Finishing up," Clark announces, getting to the tiniest spot. – Plague. How's that? By hand?

– Fi, how rude. – Riley hands the laser back to Sarah. – Get the micron ready.

The Microspeed UNI ultrasonic scalpel doesn't fit in any way with the white color of the operating room: bright blue stem, wrapped yellow wire, red display border. Emily adjusts it to Harmon's data in seconds: minimally invasive nozzle, single eights and zeros; hands it to Clark, who's been waiting longer than a moment; and gets back to her side with her elbows to her ribs.

– Be gentle with her," Gilmore purrs.

Emily, remembering Kemp's fussing over the Leica, is no longer surprised by anything – that doctors are in love with their instruments has never been a mystery to her.

– I will," Clark assures her, and presses the pedal.

She carefully polishes the area like a tooth filling, constantly adjusting the power with the foot pedal, moving from the middle to the edges.

In front of Emily's eyes, the swelling shrinks, becomes barely noticeable, and then disappears altogether: the drainage instantly takes in any remaining particles, preventing them from spreading; Sarah blows out the area once more, Gilmore prepares to put everything back in place.

– Wonderful," the surgeon says, looking at the screens. – Let's close it up.

A satisfied Clark pulls away from the Leica for a second, handing Emily the Micron, and suddenly shrieks.

The curved metal ball-shaped nozzle glistens in the light of the shadowless lamps for a second, there's a whirring sound, then the sound of the instrument falling onto the tiles, and the sleeve of her robe is soaked in blood in an instant.

Clark stands frozen, holding his hand palm up, blood trickling from the damaged skin to the floor in a thin stream, lingering just a little on the pieces of torn glove.

– Go, I'll replace it. – Gilmore, not even looking closely, takes her place. Sarah doesn't move either, and Emily remains the only one who can help.

And the neurosurgeon, still not turning her hand over, is already running to the pre-op – that's where the anti-AIDS kit hangs on the wall; Emily runs out after it and, after a change of gloves, opens the plastic lid.

Clark is pale as a sheet, even under the mask, but her hand does not flinch, and she stands as if nailed to the floor; she just reaches for Emily's injured hand – to pour alcohol, apply iodine, bandage it; cut the robe on Clark, push the neurosurgeon – right in the mask, shoe covers and cap – into the hallway, and from there – under the elbow, without panic, on bad legs – to the dressing room.

Clark's face slowly matches the color of her light green hirsute suit; and Emily, once again changing her unfortunate gloves, with a familiar movement of her foot, rolls up her table.

Everything she needs is already arranged in the container – all that remains is to decide on the nature of the wound. Emily carefully cuts the bandages, removes the remains of the glove – the wound, though cauterized with iodine, still bleeds – and places her hand on a special table with linens.

Emily opens the dry-room, rips open the kraft bag with the carpel syringe, takes out the lidocaine carpel, sets it inside.

There's a click.

She's so damn calm – no panic, no fuss; with one hand she holds the palm open, with the other she gives four shots to both sides of the wound – deep, but unexpectedly perfectly flat.

Clark silently observes the actions of the nurse: take out Hegar, pick up the needle, choose a sixteen-millimeter, clasp the needle holder in one hand; it remains to put the thread in the corner between the ends and the needle, pull lightly – and in a moment the thin fiber is already through.

Emily says out of habit:

– It doesn't hurt. Do not worry, please.

She's stitched enough wounds in her life that she doesn't even have to think about it; the body works separately from her: all the movements are honed, adjusted to the millimeter. The needle slides back and forth, piercing the thin skin with ease, Emily smiles, assuring her that everything will be fine, the tendons intact, which means it will soon heal.

– But the scar will remain," she says seriously, without stopping.

Seven stitches in less than five minutes, Emily makes the final knot, which she does with a needle holder, wrapping the thread around the ends, angling it to catch the loose edge and pulling it toward her.

A flick of the scissors, a final work on top, and Emily removes her gloves.

Clark, previously silent, pulls the mask off with one hand, tosses it into the garbage can, and asks in a hoarse voice:

– Who taught you how to load a needle this way?

– Uh-" Emily doesn't know whether to run or rejoice, "I guessed it myself somehow. It's faster that way. Will you allow me…? – She generously pours a piece of gauze fucorcinol and looks questioningly at the neurosurgeon.

Clark nods.

And so they sit, Emily, slowly touching Clark's arm, and Lorraine, keeping her gaze fixed on her with her dark gray eyes.

The neurosurgeon's hands are icy, frozen in space, detached, as if alien; Emily's are warm, light touches, more for prevention than necessity; and sparks flare in the thin fabric from each press on the stitched cut.

And then they meet, and Emily begins to burn from the inside out.

But she can't tell if it's the stars or the flames of hell.

It is as if she is lifted up to the sky and then squeezed by a vise, breaking her ribs under her skin, an instant addiction that makes a man a slave and from which it is impossible to escape on one's own. As a needle rips into crystal skin, as a grenade fragment falls into the frozen sea, exploding the ice.

The world cracks at the seams – as thin and neat as the palm of my hand, rejecting all attitudes, mixing «right» and «wrong.»

Emily had never known it to be like this; she had always thought that falling from such a height was bloody dangerous, almost fatal, but now, without trying to break free from the vise that gripped her chest, she lets herself go.

It hurts.

And scary.

Because she doesn't know the feeling – and she can't define it: to sit like this, eyes colliding and silent; only to feel herself torn apart by the flood of words she wants to say.

Clark is still motionless.

A stone.

A monument.

A rock.

And the rain splashes on the bottom of her gray eyes.

Emily knows: you can't touch her hand – but she can feel Clark flexing it a little, as if trying to catch it, to stop the movement.

Latex and perfectly clean skin.

What could be worse than Clark's fragile, glassy fingers with their mirrored, transparent veins? Emily doesn't know how to take hold of herself, because she's not sure whose to take hold of.

She has been explained: how to extract the root of a number, how to seal vessels, how to mix solutions, how many quarks are in a proton, how much grief it takes to be exalted; but all this knowledge has now proved zero, because she has not been explained the main thing.

Why doesn't every damn cell in her body belong to her anymore?

And when Clark opens his dry, weathered lips, cracked in an instant, and begins to tell her something, Emily still can't calm her atoms .

– …Eighth in a shift. Damn Autumn.

– Damn autumn," Emily echoed, working up the courage to clench her fingers.

A deep breath.

The tightly closed door swings open, the colorful patterned cardigan flashes, and eternity, frozen for a few minutes, continues its run again.

Charlie appears out of nowhere: how he found out, who told him, it is unknown, but his face is unaccustomedly serious, frowning; he casts an eloquent glance at Emily, and she leaves the room, leaving them alone.

She doesn't know what's going on behind the closed door, but as she carefully closes it behind her, she sees Charlie take a seat in the chair across from Lorraine and take her healthy hand in his. The psychiatrist's quiet voice has a soothing effect – even without distinguishing the words, Emily knows what they're talking about: Clark Sr. needs to rest.