Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 9

No, I'm not scared. It's empty. Only darkness is with me.

…The forest, closed behind me, stands a wall.

It's too late to cope. There's no use fussing.

I'm nothing

No one can save me.

Clark looked nothing like the woman Emily met in the hallway twenty-four hours ago. Dark circles under her eyes, hollow cheekbones revealing sharp cheekbones. Instead of a tight shirt, she wore a T-shirt slightly revealing one shoulder, instead of black jeans, she wore the bottoms of surgical uniforms and oversized pants with an elastic band. And, of course, no pumps. Instead, they were worn sneakers with grayed-out laces.

Emily studied her profile, the graceful, careless gesture of an artist; mussed hair, dry lips, long blond lashes. Clark is tired from the crazy night, Emily understands that without any more words; and she's also frozen: rare raindrops are still falling from the sky, and the pre-dawn frost leaves the feeling of ice on her skin.

The neurosurgeon, of course, with no outerwear, stands looking at Emily, and her gaze is brighter than any stars. Staring, but too jaded, not clinging to detail.

Human.

– No, thank you," Emily answers belatedly. – I don't smoke.

Clark shrugs his shoulders – his T-shirt slides even lower – and takes a drag. The intoxicating smell of menthol hangs in the air.

Emily takes another tentative step toward the exit, as if in contemplation, and then, with a subtle shake of her head, she turns to the surgeon and pulls off her coat.

– Put it on. – She awkwardly throws the heavy fabric over someone else's shoulders. – You'll catch cold.

The wind immediately dives under her knitted sweater, but Emily heroically endures, just as she endures Clark's gaze, which for a moment became a herald of the near end of the world.

Also in the nurse's head is the thought that if the neurosurgeon, after all, decides to give the coat back, drops it in the dirt, Emily will bite her head off.

Yes, yes, she would!

But Clark only shrugs a little, letting the fabric settle in comfortably, and brings the cigarette to her lips again. Emily shifts from foot to foot, and then stands silently beside him, squinting into the endless gray sky.

Clark breaks the silence first:

– Music?

Emily is lost, not knowing what to answer, but she nods faster than she can ask back. The neurosurgeon pats himself in his pants pockets, pulls on a white wire, and pulls out a black iPod – a tiny square with a display. Barely holding her coat over her shoulders, her hand clutching a cigarette, she holds out the earpiece to Emily.

And someone with a very melodious low voice starts singing about how it's all over, but he keeps falling harder in love anyway; and Emily – starting to freeze like hell, still clutching the stupid bag to herself, Emily stands next to Clark and can't (won't) budge.

And Clark is smiling with her eyes closed, and her cigarette is already burning to the filter; but she doesn't care – she just pulls out another one and flips the lid of the metal lighter off.

Everything that's happening seems like a dream to Emily – good or bad, she hasn't decided yet, but something like this just can't happen in reality.

Not between her and Clark.

The song ends – and starts playing again, in a loop; Emily wants to say that Clark must have pressed the "repeat" key, but the words freeze in her mouth, never coming off her lips.

When the song plays for the fourth time, Clark turns the player off, but doesn't take her headphones away; they stand there, listening to the same silence, until Emily's teeth start to tap out from the cold.

But even if her spine were turned into an icy needle, she wouldn't take a single step.

But it ends-the earpiece falls out, the coat rustles, the barely audible hiss of an extinguished cigarette; and their gazes meet. For a few seconds, the silver of the surgeon's eyes mingles with the gold of the nurse's, creating a frantic flash in Emily's mind that makes her hand involuntarily release the roll of her robe.

Clark blinks, and all the magic of the moment evaporates in an instant. Cursing and cursing herself with the last words, Emily leans over and presses the package harder against her chest.

– What is it?

– My former robe," Johnson mutters. – I know it should have gone to the recycling bin," she adds quickly, swallowing the words. – But I don't have another one. – Clark continues to stare questioningly, so Emily, with a sigh, continues, "While we were waiting for the operating room, we had to get all the shrapnel out of the patient. There was no time to change, so Dr. Higgins and I worked as hard as we could.

– Did you get it out?

– I was sewing," Emily replied, a little surprised. – It's been a strange night. I think I can stitch with my eyes closed now.

Clark rubs his eyes and smiles for some reason, shaking his head:

– Whatever it is, it won't come off.

– Uh-huh. – Another sigh. – But I won't have time to buy a new one: I have a class at the learning center this afternoon. I'll try to borrow one from Melissa, see if she has a spare. – And, Dr. Clark… I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what it's like to lose someone like Professor Ray, but…

– Don't imagine," the neurosurgeon interrupts her wearily. – It's all right, Johnson.

– I'm sorry. – Emily lowers her gaze. – I have to go. I'm sorry," she says again, turning around.

She doesn't see Clark staring after her, glaring back at her, nor does she see the neurosurgeon squaring his warmed shoulders and opening his lips, about to call out to her.

But she gives up and trudges back into the icy cold of the hospital.

The smell of menthol smoke wafts up her nose and tickles her throat.

Here we go, Emily thinks, leaning against the cool glass of the bus.

Now her coat smells like Clark cigarettes.

* * *

How Emily gets through the next week, she doesn't know. The world turns into a solid lack of sleep, diluted with flashes of events and tons of practice. Emily learns the classification of substances, and the names make her dizzy. Aerran, Plasma-Lite, Rocuronium, Voluven… When anesthesia drugs are added to the solutions, Emily is ready to cut her hair like a nun – there are ten types of Propofol in her lectures, and there are also Arduan, Sevoflurane, and Nimbex, and each differs from the other in its active composition. One good thing is that they go through the topic of preparing a surgeon for surgery in a couple of hours on the first day, work with papers in another hour, and spend the rest of the time in the practice rooms, where, with masks covering their faces, they learn disinfection all over again.

But what Emily likes best is the instrument lectures. And even though they learned it in more than one class at St. George's College, the accelerated course now gave her more knowledge than her previous place of study. Some of it, of course, she knew; but the instruments of neuro- and cardiac-surgery made her feel childlike – extra-light, made of special alloys, fitting perfectly in the palm of her hand, all those needles and clamps and corneas allowed her to close her eyes for a split second and imagine herself a real surgeon in the operating room.

They laughed – often, loudly, noisily; all seventeen of their group, surrounded by an elderly professor with a sharp tongue, teased and taunted each other; learned to identify instruments with closed eyes, by feel; drank hot tea from plastic cups, confused names, then repeated them again, tied numerous gowns, memorized knot names and sterilization rules, honed sequences of preparation for operations until the pulse dropped.

Melissa does give her a robe – old and smelly with mothballs, three sizes big, with sleeves always falling down and without one button, but Emily is happy about it: the junior staff is not supposed to issue overalls, unless it concerns operations. So she secures the sleeves with pins, ties the belt tighter, and sews on a button during the tiny lunch break. The smell of mothballs wears off on its own – being in the disinfector room all the time definitely has its perks; and if it weren't for the fabric yellowing in places from old age, Emily would even say it looks quite tolerable.

The courses started at noon, ended at eight, and right after, Emily would run to her patients: the prospect of being without a week's pay this month relieved fatigue in an instant.

And then there was Clark.

The smell of menthol cigarettes still lingers on her coat, as if it had found its place among the wool fibers; and every time she opens her locker, Emily can imagine them standing in the yard listening to music again.

The song settles into her old push-button phone, sounds through her cheap, bad-sounding headphones, echoes in her head as she hums it to herself as she rubs through a mountain of instruments.

In a life filled with loneliness and a couple or three casual acquaintances, such a bright, ice-cold Clark has taken a pedestal of honor and now looks on from there, sometimes raising an eyebrow. What are you, Johnson, a complete idiot?

Emily smiles at her thoughts, silently doing her chores.

I should take Clark out for ice cream, she thinks. Chocolate and mint or coffee, and have cinnamon straws sticking out of the vase; except what kind of ice cream – it's about to get sub-zero outside, and the damn rain just stopped its week-long assault on the city yesterday.

I wonder which one Clark likes…?

No one even speaks to her properly; each time Emily comes to the room, takes readings, gives evening shots, takes her to procedures, until one night her fragile internal system fails.

The day before her exam and certification, Emily prepares the blind girl for discharge – tomorrow she is to be taken to an assisted living center where she can get temporary housing and the skills she needs for society; so Emily, with notes turning over in her head, doesn't even think that anything bad could happen.

But it does happen.

When the monitors explode with squeaks and the thud of a body hitting the floor from behind, Emily is already out of the room, so she has less than a second to react and support a falling patient, and no miracle happens, of course – no miracles happen in medicine, you should have remembered by now. Her head bangs against the foot of the bed, there's a pathetic, barely audible cry, and something bangs loudly against the tile, drowning out the screeching monitor.

Emily elbows the staff call button, laying the convulsing girl back down. It's another lesson learned, experience-enforced sequence of lowering the headboard, shoving off the bedside table, throwing off the blanket and pillow, and pressing her shoulders against the cool sheets.

Instead of the nurse on duty, Clark flies into the room – and her appearance here is even more unexpected than if an angel had flown in through the window.

– She's up, she's down, she's having a seizure! – Emily yells out, afraid that one more violent spasm and she just can't hold it.

– On the side of her," immediately commands the neurosurgeon, switching places with the nurse. – Ten cc's of Pherocipam! Why did you even let her get up?

– They're prepping her for discharge. – Emily breaks off the ampoule and fills the syringe. – Where is everybody?

– I have no idea… Oh, shit!

The drug is administered immediately, without failing, only instead of strengthening the process of inhibition in the central nervous system, it works exactly the opposite. There is a crunch, the patient bends her whole body – and falls down, falling over. Emily sees blood trickling from her mouth, and another trickle of blood trickling from under the bandages on her head that hadn't been completely removed.

Clark palms the call buttons at the head of the neighboring beds, and they go off instantly, filling the room with a bright red glow; somewhere in the back of Emily's mind, she flashes the thought that it never happened the first time – the button must not have worked – but it slips away too quickly.

Emily sees everything that happens from the outside – here comes the resuscitation team rushing in, here is Clark, shouting, pushing the gurney with everyone else, and here is herself – white as a sheet, with only one thought – what if she did something wrong…?

– There could be anything. – They rush into the elevator. – Let's get her to the O.R. We'll take it from there. Johnson, you're dismissed.

Emily can only stand and watch as the heavy elevator doors slowly close, cutting off her face Clark, on which – Emily would have sworn – written in panic.

In her gut, she knows something has gone wrong.

Instead of the nurse on duty, Clark flies into the room – and her appearance here is even more unexpected than if an angel had flown in through the window.

– She's up, she's down, she's having a seizure! – Emily yells out, afraid that one more violent spasm and she just can't hold it.

– On the side of her," immediately commands the neurosurgeon, switching places with the nurse. – Ten cc's of Pherocipam! Why did you even let her get up?

– They're prepping her for discharge. – Emily breaks off the ampoule and fills the syringe. – Where is everybody?

– I have no idea… Oh, shit!

The drug is administered immediately, without failing, only instead of strengthening the process of inhibition in the central nervous system, it works exactly the opposite. There is a crunch, the patient bends her whole body – and falls down, falling over. Emily sees a thin stream of blood pouring from her mouth; another trickle trickles from under the bandages not completely removed from her head.

Clark palms the call buttons at the head of the neighboring beds, and they go off instantly, filling the room with a bright red glow; somewhere in the back of Emily's mind, she flashes the thought that it never happened the first time – the button must not have worked – but it slips away too quickly.

Emily sees everything that happens from the outside – here comes the resuscitation team rushing in, here is Clark, shouting, pushing the gurney with everyone else, and here is herself – white as a sheet, with only one thought – what if she did something wrong…?

– There could be anything. – They rush into the elevator. – Let's get her to the O.R. We'll take it from there. Johnson, you're dismissed.

Emily can only stand and watch as the heavy elevator doors slowly close, cutting off her face Clark, on which – Emily would have sworn – written in panic.

In her gut, she knows something has gone wrong.

* * *

The sleepless night before the exam, the chronic lack of sleep and malnutrition of recent days, the inhuman regime brings dizziness, weakness and nausea into Emily's life; she gets carsick on the bus so bad that she has to get off two stops early and walk, wading through the crowds of people rushing to the subway.

Emily tries to count the number of cups of coffee she's had in the last two days, and she loses it at ten. Her stomach rumbles pitifully: she doesn't have time to cook, and she can't eat enough sandwiches from small shops.

And Emily doesn't have much money, but she'll get a big raise if she passes her exams.

If only she could survive the day, the nurse thought, and her fingers touched the wooden cross on her breast.

As she enters, Olivia shouts at her:

– Johnson, Dr. Moss is looking for you, urgently. Told me to come see him as soon as you got here.

Emily looks at her watch: the exam is a little less than half an hour away. Maybe she can make it to neurology in time, except…

– I told her not to change," Olivia adds guiltily. – I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with him.

The nurse shrugs her shoulders – after all, there are locker rooms in the study block too, though not as spacious, but if anything, she will change there very quickly; or still have time to run to her department.

But Moss?

What could a neurologist possibly need from a simple nurse he'd seen once in his life?

Andrew Moss has dark hair, expensive-rimmed glasses, and a watch that screams more value than the house Emily lives in. In his perfectly clean red-and-white office, the neurologist seems like the Red Queen, waiting to have her head blown off her shoulders.

In the chair in front of him sits a frowning Clark – purple chiffon blouse, navy blue jeans, timeless pumps; behind her stands Melissa, and her heavy gaze does not bode well.

Mentally, Emily pulls out some reflective foil and wraps herself in it from head to toe.

The electronic clock on the wall reads twenty-ten-it's a little over a quarter of an hour until the exam.

– Miss Johnson," Moss folded the fingers of both hands in a triangle, "we won't keep you long, don't worry. I suppose you're wondering why you're here? – Nod. – Since Professor Ray's death, I'm temporarily acting his duties until a new chief physician is appointed.

Clark barely twitches.

* * *

The sleepless night before the exam, the chronic lack of sleep and malnutrition of the last few days, and the inhuman regimen of the last two days bring dizziness, weakness, and nausea into Emily's life; she gets so sick on the bus that she has to get off two stops early and walk, wading through the crowds of people rushing to the subway.

Emily tries to count the number of cups of coffee she's had in the last two days, and she loses it at ten. Her stomach rumbles pitifully: she doesn't have time to cook, and she can't eat enough sandwiches from small shops.

And Emily doesn't have much money, but she'll get a big raise if she passes her exams.

If only she could survive the day, the nurse thought, and her fingers touched the wooden cross on her breast.

As she enters, Olivia shouts at her:

– Johnson, Dr. Moss is looking for you, urgently. Told me to come see him as soon as you got here.

Emily looks at her watch: the exam is a little less than half an hour away. Maybe she can make it to neurology in time, except…

– I told her not to change," Olivia adds guiltily. – I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with him.

The nurse shrugs her shoulders – after all, there are locker rooms in the study block too, though not as spacious, but if anything, she will change there very quickly; or still have time to run to her department.

But Moss?

What could a neurologist possibly need from a simple nurse he'd seen once in his life?

Andrew Moss has dark hair, expensive-rimmed glasses, and a watch that screams more value than the house Emily lives in. In his perfectly clean red-and-white office, the neurologist seems like the Red Queen, waiting to have her head blown off her shoulders.

In the chair in front of him sits a frowning Clark – purple chiffon blouse, navy blue jeans, timeless pumps; behind her stands Melissa, and her heavy gaze does not bode well.

Mentally, Emily pulls out some reflective foil and wraps herself in it from head to toe.

The electronic clock on the wall reads twenty-ten-it's a little over a quarter of an hour until the exam.

– Miss Johnson," Moss folded the fingers of both hands in a triangle, "we won't keep you long, don't worry. I suppose you're wondering why you're here? – Nod. – Since Professor Ray's death, I'm temporarily acting his duties until a new chief physician is appointed.

Clark barely twitches.

– So," Moss takes the chart from his desk and lazily flips through it, "yesterday our patient almost died from a blood clot caused by taking the wrong drug, and the police, our valiant police, are very interested in the case.

He speaks so quietly that Emily hears the red-hot lights humming in the hallway. Neither Clark nor the head nurse make a sound, staring at one point in front of them; Emily just stands there, her gaze lowered to the floor, her heavy coat pulling her hands away.

– They already questioned us a few days ago," the neurologist continues. – Three unnamed patients, all with the same diagnosis, but with different causes that we were never able to identify…

– Andrew," Clark voices, "get to the point.

Moss stands up, resting his palms on the glass tabletop, and, looking furtively, asks a direct question:

– So you injected her with pherocipam, Dr. Clark. Why?

Emily flinches, and the coat at the bend of her elbow suddenly becomes heavier than lead.

The picture, hitherto blurred, hidden in the very corner of her brain, becomes brighter and clearer: Clark, asking for a syringe of pherocipam; her panicked face; the patient's seizure. And Emily, who can't figure out where they went wrong, who looks helplessly at the closing elevator doors.

– We have two medications for cases like this, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you their differences?

The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.

Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.

But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.

– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.

– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.

On the chair in front of him sits a frowning Clark – purple chiffon blouse, navy blue jeans, timeless pumps; behind her stands Melissa, and her heavy gaze does not bode well.

Mentally, Emily pulls out some reflective foil and wraps herself in it from head to toe.

The electronic clock on the wall reads twenty-ten-it's a little over a quarter of an hour until the exam.

– Miss Johnson," Moss folded the fingers of both hands in a triangle, "we won't keep you long, don't worry. I suppose you're wondering why you're here? – Nod. – Since Professor Ray's death, I'm temporarily acting his duties until a new chief physician is appointed.

Clark barely twitches.

– So," Moss takes the chart from his desk and lazily flips through it, "yesterday our patient almost died from a blood clot caused by taking the wrong drug, and the police, our valiant police, are very interested in the case.

He speaks so quietly that Emily hears the red-hot lights humming in the hallway. Neither Clark nor the head nurse make a sound, staring at one point in front of them; Emily just stands there, her gaze lowered to the floor, her heavy coat pulling her hands away.

– They already questioned us a few days ago," the neurologist continues. – Three unnamed patients, all with the same diagnosis, but with different causes that we were never able to identify…

– Andrew," Clark voices, "get to the point.

Moss stands up, resting his palms on the glass tabletop, and, looking furtively, asks a direct question:

– So you injected her with pherocipam, Dr. Clark. Why?

Emily flinches, and the coat at the bend of her elbow suddenly becomes heavier than lead.

The picture, hitherto blurred, hidden in the very corner of her brain, becomes brighter and clearer: Clark, asking for a syringe of pherocipam; her panicked face; the patient's seizure. And Emily, who can't figure out where they went wrong, who looks helplessly at the closing elevator doors.

– We have two medications for cases like this, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you their differences?

The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.

Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.

But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.

– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.

– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.

– Dr. Clark, which letter of the drug causes a depressant effect? – Moss asks in a pallid voice. – I'll give you a hint. The same letter that begins your last name.

Clark still silently drills him with his gaze, and red spots appear on his cheeks, either from shame or anger. Emily sees her fingertips begin to tremble subtly.

– I know. – The neurosurgeon's voice rings with anger. – There's no need to…

– So what the hell?! – Moss explodes. – Why the hell are you, doctor, prescribing a patient a drug that is incompatible with her life?! Don't you know how to read labels? Maybe you should take a leave of absence. We'll find you a great substitute! – He's still screaming. – You almost killed her, Clark! And just because you pulled that clot out doesn't mean anything! If it hadn't been for your negligence, none of this would have happened!

Clark looks at him the way she once looked at Emily, who crashed into her in the hallway – as if she's looking at a crushed cockroach that needs to be bypassed, or better yet, wrapped in newspaper and put out of sight. The neurosurgeon pursed her lips, but remained silent; she only breathed a little harder than usual – Emily could see the fabric of her blouse rising and falling in time with her breathing.

There is nothing to breathe in the room – as if the smoke has begun to encircle Emily's legs, pulling at her bones, climbing into her lungs and itching there. It seems that if she looks down, she'll see tongues of flame.

If Clark is to blame for this, all is not well.

– Dr. Moss," Melissa, who had been silent until then, spoke up. – "The thing is, the staff call button in Thirteen didn't work…

– I don't want to hear anything! – cuts off the neurologist. – You didn't even act with your own hands, you asked the nurse to do it! – He slams his hand on the table. – This is worse than if you had just stood there and watched!

Seven minutes. If she manages to escape from here now, she'll make it to the academic building in time for the service stairs. The hell with her clothes. She could borrow them from the people who had already handed them in. The main thing is to check in…

– I'm suspending you from work for a month. You'll be working at the clinic at their rate of pay.

– We have two drugs for such cases, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you the differences?

The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.

Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.

But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.

– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.

– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.

– Dr. Clark, which letter of the drug causes a depressant effect? – Moss asks in a pallid voice. – I'll give you a hint. The same letter that begins your last name.

Clark still silently drills him with his gaze, and red spots appear on his cheeks, either from shame or anger. Emily sees her fingertips begin to tremble subtly.

– I know. – The neurosurgeon's voice rings with anger. – There's no need to…

– So what the hell?! – Moss explodes. – Why the hell are you, doctor, prescribing a patient a drug that is incompatible with her life?! Don't you know how to read labels? Maybe you should take a leave of absence. We'll find you a great substitute! – He's still screaming. – You almost killed her, Clark! And just because you pulled that clot out doesn't mean anything! If it hadn't been for your negligence, none of this would have happened!

Clark looks at him the way she once looked at Emily, who crashed into her in the hallway – as if she's looking at a crushed cockroach that needs to be bypassed, or better yet, wrapped in newspaper and put out of sight. The neurosurgeon pursed her lips, but remained silent; she breathed a little harder than usual – Emily could see the fabric of her blouse rising and falling in time with her breathing.

There is nothing to breathe in the room – as if the smoke has begun to encircle Emily's legs, pulling at her bones, climbing into her lungs and itching there. It seems that if she looks down, she'll see tongues of flame.

If Clark is to blame for this, all is not well.

– Dr. Moss," Melissa, who had been silent until then, spoke up. – "The thing is, the staff call button in Thirteen didn't work…

– I don't want to hear anything! – cuts off the neurologist. – You didn't even act with your own hands, you asked the nurse to do it! – He slams his hand on the table. – This is worse than if you had just stood there and watched!

Seven minutes. If she manages to escape from here now, she'll make it to the academic building in time for the service stairs. The hell with her clothes. She could borrow them from the people who had already handed them in. The main thing is to check in…

– I'm suspending you from work for a month. You'll be working at the clinic at their rate of pay.

That's not so bad, Emily thinks. What's the clinic rate, less than a thousand pounds? That's all right, she lives on a quarter of that; after all, it's not such a big price to pay for a near-fatal mistake.

And Clark does not calm down: turns the embers around so that the flames hit almost in the face; with a sharp movement he gets up from the chair, pulls on the impeccably ironed fabric of his blouse and, almost shaking with anger, in an icy voice states:

– Look for a great replacement for me, Andrew. You did it once. What was that show for, would you tell me? Self-assertion? – She raises an eyebrow. – You're nothing but drama. – Clark neatly unhooks his nametag and puts it on his desk. – The play is over. Everyone is dismissed.

Five minutes. Gotta run, all the more reason to let go; only five minutes…

There'll be more Clarks like this in life, won't there?

They won't.

– Wait! Emily steps forward. – Wait a minute. Wait! That's not her. It's me. I got confused.

Melissa, who was leaving the office first, turns around.

– Emily…

– Johnson," Clark hisses warningly.

– I mixed up the meds," Emily says in a curt voice, and her own knees are shaking so badly she can barely stand up. – I've had an overtime week, and I've been taking classes and working with patients, and I got them mixed up. Dr. Clark said it right. I wasn't paying enough attention to hear it. It's so loud in there…

Melissa looks at her like she's crazy.

– Miss Johnson. – Moss sits back in her chair and leans back. – Clarify for us, please. Did you mix up the drugs on purpose?

It's three minutes to three minutes.

– No, I just didn't hear it," said Emily, as if she'd been wound up, tuned to one wave. – I didn't hear the name. I put the wrong one in the chart. Dr. Clark called the team and fixed it. It was my own fault. I thought I could handle it.

– You didn't know what you were doing, so… – Moss looks at her. – And you didn't confess right away because…

– I was scared. I didn't think it would get this far.

She's scared. She's scared as hell – the ground is falling out from under her feet, the sky outside the window is going black and collapsing on her head. Emily realizes that something is now breaking, grinding, shredding. Something inside her explodes and sweeps away everything in its path, including her hopes. The clock reads ten; there is no way she can be late, but maybe she will at least be allowed to retake it…?

May a miracle happen, she prays. Let anything happen. She would believe anything, do anything, just let it happen, let a miracle happen.

But the paper airplane mentally falls down, never making it to the glass.

– You are fired.

Too predictable, Emily thinks. Let him say that with tomorrow, let him, let him.

– Yesterday.

Not the courses, not the courses…

– And, of course, all scores at the learning center will be canceled. The hospital cannot allow anyone whose competence we question.

Emily burns in the jaws of fire that engulf her body; it's like trying to appear grown up and stronger, taking the weight of the earth on her shoulders, but failing to endure and sinking to the very core of the earth.

She cannot take a breath.

Inexplicable ways, she thinks, leaving the office, somewhere two more lines will cross – her and Clark, all will be rewarded, or maybe it has already been rewarded and the neurosurgeon will save someone's life tonight. And the vanguard doesn't hurt that much; it's scary as hell, but it doesn't hurt. That's why there's only black, molasses-stretching fear inside her.

And no more wishful thinking about tomorrow, no more dreams, no more music – gathering her things from her locker, through a veil of tears Emily drops the phone on the shiny tile, and a crack of spider legs scatters across the screen.

You are bright, all-powerful, with words hitting your temples, shooting to kill; who needed you like this, who needed this heroism, why did you even bother to save anyone?

She slams her palm against the locker in a rage, and the metal responds with a sob as pathetic as herself.

It's time to wake up.

She is, of course, standing behind her – the way angels stand behind their wards – and the robe, snow-white and lemon-scented, almost burns with its whiteness.

Emily doesn't turn around – there's not much stuff, but it's bulky, hard to pack, and she has half an hour to get it all together, then her pass is revoked. She'd have to stop by Higgins, only he probably already knows.

The sacrifice had cost her all her inner strength; she hadn't had time to think about the consequences.

– It wasn't worth it," Clark said. – I wouldn't have left, for God's sake, Johnson, he wouldn't have dared fire me.

Emily is silent, and her numb back shoots pain under her skin.

What a fool she is. Of course, who would let someone like Clark leave? She's the one everyone here prays to, she recalls with a crazy smile. The savior of brains, lord of stem cells; any other hospital would have given her a red carpet welcome.

Stupid, stupid Johnson!

– Andrew just wanted to feel power. An arrogant, spoiled brat.

The nurse is still silent, trying to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her stretched sweater. Clark speaks next, something about freedom and class, but Emily doesn't listen to her.

It was all for nothing.

She took a risk, put her whole self on the line – and lost.

The black crocs sink into the bag, tossed into the box standing next to it. The old robe remains lonely in the locker – Emily just doesn't want to meet anyone to give it away – and Johnson, realizing she's got it all together, freezes in place.

And she feels a warm touch on her wrist. The bare skin explodes with sparks and melts and sizzles; and no amount of fine acrylic ligature can save the heat on Clark's fingertips.

Somewhere in her ribs an exhalation reverberates – a pinchingly warm watercolor splash; a vivid color; a velvet; and Emily is afraid to move.

It lasts a moment – their fingers are almost touching, just a little more, and she can take Clark's hand, and it hits, hits the dry current all over her body.

– You can't ignore me.

Clark so easily jumps from formal conversation to a simple tone, as if they were friends or colleagues; so easily switches from the role of an icy neurosurgeon to an ordinary person, that Emily turns to her, obeying the slight, unobtrusive movement of her hand – and looks into her eyes, trying to see something there.

Some answer to the thousand questions that have arisen.

But things always turn out differently.

– Dr. Clark. – She gently releases her hand. – Please. It's all right. Better me than you. After all… It's just a mistake.

The door slams shut.

All that's left is fire.