Impuls

Aster

Emily quickly removes her gray coat and stuffs it into a narrow locker; she fumbles with her pant legs, drops her jeans, and slips into a pair of sizeless pants. They are allowed to keep their own T-shirt; they should just hide it under the robe. Although some, like Rebecca, prefer to wear cotton over their naked bodies.

For junior nurses, the uniform is the same: white pants and a gown with an embroidered Royal London Hospital logo; a nametag attached to the breast pocket; and comfortable shoes – traditional loafers or loafers.

She slips into the unchanging black Crocs, catches Dana's odd look, Rebecca's snort, and habitually throws them out of her mind-something that stays forever.

Taking a sip of coffee from the thermos and strapping on her nametag, Emily hears the others coming up: the night shift ends, flowing into the morning shift, the front door keeps slamming, the cold street air enveloping her feet.

– Ah, Johnson, ready yet? – Melissa arises at her shoulder and picks up the neatly folded folders. – You're in neurology today – James asked me to send him a couple of assistants. Grab poor Evis from the E.R., and get over there.

– Neurology is neurology. – Emily gathered her brown hair into a high ponytail and fastened it with bobby pins. The unruly strands struggled to take shape, here and there the curling ends fell out. – Damn you," she says angrily to the mirror, pulling her robe up.

– What, you still can't get a doctor? – Rebecca tilts her head sideways; her thin lips are clearly marked by lipstick that hasn't been fully washed off. – Don't be sad, you'll get lucky one day. – She sends her an air kiss.

– Take this to Gilmore's surgery and wash the disgust off. – Melissa hands Rebecca a heavy plastic box of papers. – Let her figure out what to do with it.

The last thing Emily hears before she closes the door behind her is Rebecca's indignant voice.

* * *

– It was brought in at night. – The thin file is on the table. – Harmon says it's clear enough, but there's something about it that makes me…" He pauses.

The dark-haired man pulls out his expensive-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket and reaches for the thick cardboard.

– Mr. Moss," the doctor who brought the file continues, "there is a craniotomy performed here, that is, on the head.

– What exactly are you confused about? – Andrew Moss runs a glance over the scribbled sheet.

– Look at the picture.

He presses his lips together grudgingly – his shift hasn't even officially started yet – but still walks over to the huge negatoscope hanging on the wall and, fixing a small photograph to it, turns on the lamps.

– Do you see it? Right there. – The man who brought the folder points to the dot. – What do you think it is?

– A trace from a failed stereotaxis?

– Inside?

– Our brain has no nerve endings," Moss shrugs. – It can't hurt, Professor. You know that yourself. Maybe it's another tumor that hasn't been seen, or a neoplasm that's recently appeared. Well, maybe we should change the machine. Either way…

– Professor M. Higgins, GP, I've checked him in three different machines. They all showed the same thing – the patient does not have a tumor, only this defect. The gray spot on the scan. A cavity that looks like it was forgotten to be filled.

Mark sits in the chair across from Andrew's desk and rubs his gray beard.

– Why do you need my opinion if you already know the answer? – Moss frowns.

– You're going to love this. – Mark smiles at the corners of his lips. – Our patient has an artificially excised Wernicke. There's a void in its place. What's more, he remains anonymous to this day: he has no memory at all. Simply put, he has too many defects for one person. But it is nevertheless a very interesting case: Broca remains unaffected.

Moss adjusts the perfectly pressed collar of his expensive shirt and turns off the wall lamps. In the morning light of the study, the gold dial of his Hublot is clearly visible: the hands are inexorably approaching seven o'clock in the morning.

– Interesting. – Andrew folds his fingers into a house. – Mr. Anonymity with a clipped speech. – His brown eyes seem almost black as he squints. – Afferent aphasia, then. Remind me again, how old is he? About sixty?

– He's hardly twenty," Mark shakes his head. – Found him unconscious in the street, brought him here. There was blood on his head – they suspected head injury, they took pictures… And then you know. Someone operated on him and just threw him away like he was nothing.

– We need to find out if he had epilepsy," Moss returns the file, "or a hemorrhagic stroke. We also need tests for encephalitis, leukoencephalitis, heavy metals, protein. We figure out the cause, we'll get to the main consequence. And we need to show these scans to Grace.

Higgins rises from his comfortable chair, takes the thin cardboard, nods, and leaves without saying good-bye: as a general practitioner, he never takes a shift; his whole life is work.

Afterward, Moss pulls a perfectly pressed white coat out of the closet, throws it over his shirt, and walks over to his desk and takes his nametag – the words Andrew Moss, neurologist, stand out clearly on the glossy surface of the plastic.

Cursing, he slips a pack of cigarettes into his pocket.