Impuls

Aster

That Lorraine isn't at work, she realizes immediately.

It's not because the door to the neurosurgeon's office is shut tightly; no, it's worse than that-it's wide open, as if Clark had just stepped out a minute ago.

Except that both robes are just as they were left yesterday, and the broken glass is still catching the reflection of the frowning sky in its shards. Things around Emily are scattered in chaos-folders mingled with crumpled papers, pens and pencils lying around, a fallen electronic clock counting down gently.

The white cloth, dirty and crumpled, is crumpled in the middle of the office, and Emily somehow picks it up first, as if it might still be usable for something; but reason tells her that professional cleaning is needed here, and the nurse simply unclenches her fist, letting the robes fall to her feet with a soft rustle.

Behind her she hears footsteps, keys jingle, a lock clicks; Emily feels the bitter smell reaching her through such a distance and panics: if Moss sees her here, he will fire her right away, for no reason, and he won't give a damn about Clark.

But luckily, the trouble passes her by, scorching her breath-the head of neurology slams his door on the inside, and the main corridor is quiet again.

Emily exhales.

– This place needs to be cleaned up. – A heavy hand rests on her shoulder.

She shudders in surprise and turns abruptly; her brown hair, loosely tied up in a bun, falls in locks and bobby pins to the floor with a metallic clang.

Gilmore, who remains perfectly calm, yawns frankly:

– We're working with Neil today, and you're still with me on general plannings. – Another yawn. – Why are you looking at me like that? I slept for six hours," he mutters.

Emily expects Riley to say something about the mess.

Or ask what happened here.

Or ask her to get someone to clean it up.

But instead, the surgeon glances at her wristwatch and asks a single question:

– Didn't you take our schedule…?

And her workday begins to spin.

In the hour before her first operation, Emily combines her job as secretary and janitor: she runs like a madwoman from neurology to the waiting room and back, over and over again, in a hundredth circle.

It's the same thousands of little leaves, slipped into the pockets of her jeans, the same bog-colored turtleneck, the same glances at her – a blank space, a misty grayness, a weed that has sprouted through the concrete.

Emily takes today's schedule – incomprehensible numbers, initials, designations; she scolds herself, hastily converts it on one of the free computers into three columns – time, crew, patient code; and no stupid abbreviations in which nothing can be understood. Thinking about it, she adds blank lines – let them be, she will make unscheduled ones later, it will be for her report and Sara's help.

She takes the folders, takes them to the archives, certifies them, signs them; she pokes a nametag that Harmon brings her – her pride: gray background, photo, Emily Johnson, nurse, Block F.

You want to take a picture and send it to your mother – look, Mom, what I've accomplished, how I can now.

Not to the bottom, but in a straight line.

She runs into Gilmore again and again in the hallways-the surgeon is unaccustomedly gloomy and taciturn, changing coffee cups every hour, frowning while talking on the phone, and a few minutes before the preparation for surgery even begins, he catches Emily by the shoulders and pushes her into his office.

And if Clark is impeccable brevity and polished minimalism, and Charlie is a desperate tribute to hippies, Gilmore turns out to be a real narcissist.

Apparently, he shares an office with two other doctors: the simplicity of the loft-like decor is obscured by a wall full of diplomas and photographs. Emily wouldn't be surprised to see a trophy under the glass – the title "Most Narcissistic Surgeon – 2018" would definitely go to Gilmore.

She cautiously sits down in one of the two chairs by his desk – the same glass one Clark has – and looks questioningly at the doctor.

– We have a problem.

Emily consults a sheet of paper:

– We're scheduled to operate on Miss Mills at eleven. Stem glioma, stage one, along with Dr. Neal's team and…

– She's anemic," interrupts a plump Gilmore in her chair. – And she's Zoroastrian.

– Is that a disease?

– Worse. Religion.

Emily shrugs:

– So?

– Her… uh… God? What do they call their priest over there? Not the point. Anyway, he forbids blood transfusions, and we can't risk putting her under the knife with anemia. – Riley taps his fingers on the tabletop.

– We could use a substitute," Emily suggests. – A preservative…

– You don't get it. Her religion forbids medical interventions in general. – He holds out to her a thin folder with just one sheet. – The cells of this crap have already grown into healthy tissue and, in some places, have even replaced it. We've stopped the development, of course, but the glial cells don't want to function normally-so what's inside her can't be stopped. Only to cut it.

Emily remembers the volume of the Bible, carefully lying in the top drawer of the nightstand, and somehow she becomes ashamed.