Impuls

Aster

The sun gradually rises over the Royal London Hospital.

Chapter 2

dress warmer, please, autumn is coming, puddles on the sidewalk, you know the world will overpower you if you lose to yourself.

Emily finds "poor" Avis without any problems – Melissa's metaphor hits the mark: tall and thin, Avis Wood is asleep, laughing with his mouth open, right outside the emergency room. Someone has carefully tucked a thermal blanket under his head and tucked his glasses into his pocket.

Emily shakes him lightly on the shoulder, and Avis jumps up like a stung man.

– Huh?!

– I'm from Melissa," Emily explains patiently. – We've been referred to neurology.

– Ahhhh…

He smooths his disheveled hair and somehow slips on his glasses-the thin metal frames make his already gray eyes almost colorless.

– I'm sorry. – He rises. – I've been on twenty-four hours, and now they've thrown a day job on top of it. – Wood yawns, but moves with confidence, unlike Emily, who doesn't know where to go – in six months of work, she's never been to the neurology ward: it's the opposite block.

– On a 24-hour shift? – She follows him on his heels. – Aren't you studying?

– Yeah. – Avis nods, pulling her robe up tighter. – I'm studying at Warwick, we're on vacation.

– Still? – Emily wonders.

– Everyone's on vacation until October. – He holds the door open. – Didn't you know that?

– No, I…" She's lost. – I just went to a different system, I guess.

Emily bites her tongue: twenty years ago it was cool to go to St. George's University; now it's just for people who have nowhere else to go: there's a gray building on the side of the huge hospital, a lecture hall, proudly known as a university. In fact, her magnetic pass said she was a student in the MBBS4 program, a four-year course in medicine, which allowed her to advance no further than the level of a senior nurse.

She was still lucky – it was rare to find a good job after such poor training; and money for another qualification was scarce, and dreams of promotion were safely and far hidden.

So she lowers her gaze to the floor, but Wood no longer pays attention to her; he doesn't seem to care at all-he didn't even ask her name, and he certainly doesn't care what she does.

The neurology department seems times larger than her usual orthopedics or waiting room: behind the giant glass doors is a wide light-beige corridor with many branches; here, wrapped in ebony frames, are the service aisles to the operating rooms and laboratories.

Wood and lofty, brick-and-white finishes are everywhere; by every ivory door are signs: neurologist, neurosurgeon, nephrologist, senior resident, room for junior staff. The biggest door, of course, is by the department head's office: Professor Donald Ray's waiting room, the gilded sign reads.

– I'm going to go find James. Will you wait or come with me? – Wood doesn't even turn around, talking to the wall.

Emily shrugs uncertainly; Avis snorts and, contrary to her expectations, turns down a small corridor on her way to the operating rooms. They put their badge to the lock and push open a barely visible gray door, and enter the lounge of the operating room's junior staff.

Johnson gazes enviously at the huge, airy, light-filled room: upholstered couches, a television, a small kitchen with a red coffee machine humming, a large cooler by the book stacks; another door leads to locker rooms and showers.

On the dark blue couch, a dark-haired man lazily flips through the pages of a reference book. He would seem overly brutal – broad shoulders, three-day stubble, a tattoo above his elbow – but tiny round glasses give his face a strange, almost childlike expression.

– Dr. Harmon? – Avis clears his throat, drawing attention.

– Ah, Wood! – The man pulls back from his book and squints, as if the dioptres in his glasses weren't enough to see them both. – God bless your Mel! We've got four people who didn't make it out today, and all of them are Mary's! So we need new hands, ha ha, that's right, hands. – He laughs. – Here I've asked her, so she can help me out by sending one of her own; maybe we can manage that at least. – Harmon speaks so fast that Emily can hardly perceive the flow of words. – So, hee-hee, get your feet in your hands and go, hee-hee, put our vegetables on shelves, thank God, not the morgue, just the ward shelves, yes, the ward shelves…

He stands up, and Emily involuntarily takes a step back: only now does she notice that James has a large burn scar on the right side of his cheek, the way the burning skin charred and torn like paper. It's as if Harmon is reading her mind – touching the burnt skin with his fingertips, muttering: "Stop staring," and looks her down from above: he's two heads taller than Jones and much broader in the shoulders, making her feel like a real giant; and in the doctor's round glasses she sees her frightened face.

Avis pokes her in the side with a sharp elbow, and Emily looks down ashamed.

– Patients, uh, yes, patients … There's one with a history of stroke, and he wants general anesthesia, what a fool, yes, with a stroke – to general, well, the fool, well," mutters James, after a moment forgetting about the incident. – So if you see something like that, you'd better let me know, you're not stupid, are you? With a stroke – under the general," he keeps repeating, leaving the room.

Emily sighs: she never worked in neurology, but she had to prepare for surgery and take to the procedure, and more than once. A strand of unruly brown hair comes loose, and she tries to tuck it back in, looking in the large wall mirror.

– Are you going to keep your hair like that? – Evis's abrupt voice makes her turn around.

– No, I… uh…" The hairpin slid into the bundle somehow, scratching her skin. – I'm sorry," she adds for some reason.