Impuls

Aster

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.

* * *

Emily expects anyone: paralyzed old people, teenagers with serious tumors, pregnant women with heightened nervousness, men with a high degree of dementia, but not this one.

And if Charlie Clark was making a joke now, his joke didn't work.

Because there are three patients in a three-person room: a deaf young man, a blind girl, and something with a tightly bandaged head, brought in less than half an hour ago. Emily cannot determine age, gender, or even illness: the bandages start at the top of the head and end somewhere around the neck, completely covering the eyes and mouth, leaving only a slit for the nose.

Three cards – two completely filled and one completely blank – stick out in a special compartment at the entrance to the room; and Emily scolds herself for not thinking to ask Harmon what she should do now.

She starts with a simple one: check on her well-being, review files, write down vitals, and pull out the injection and treatment forms from the envelope. Despite the taciturnity of both patients – John and Jane – Emily subconsciously senses that they are pleased with her; that is why she entertains the girl with silly stories, and manages to get John a whole stack of crossword puzzles and a pencil. She does not go near the bandaged patient: without Dr. Higgins' instructions, she might do unnecessary things, and Emily herself has no idea what to do with it all. So she enters the figures in the blank card and puts it back in its holder in good conscience.

Higgins arrives at ten, takes a long look at another unnamed patient, carefully examines every inch of skin, and then tells Emily to take him to the treatment room.

– What are we going to do? – Emily asks quietly.

– We have to take the bandages off," Higgins says. – I just saw Riley at Clark's, so bring him in and put him to work. In the meantime, we'll get ready and go to the seventh, it seemed to be free.

With the doctor's help, Emily carefully moves the patient from the bed to a wheelchair and quickly exits the room.

Higgins is not mistaken: from behind the ajar door of Clark's office come the voices, among which Gilmore's bass and the neurosurgeon's own laughter are easily recognized. Emily shifts from foot to foot, chest full of air, and knocks.

– …practicing on a chicken, remember, Laurie? The bald one, the skinny one.

– How's your wife?

– Ex-wife… Come in!

Emily's wrong. There are three people in the office. Clark half-lounges in his huge chair, his legs in tight jeans on the armrest; opposite her stands Gilmore – a white robe carelessly thrown over one shoulder, a pack of cigarettes unashamedly peeking out of his pocket; on the couch in a lotus position sits Charlie – not even dressed in uniform yet, except that the badge swinging on his chest.