Impuls

Aster

The world against her, definitely; and Clark is at the head of it.

The neurosurgeon doesn't even bend over, looking at Emily cowering below as if she'd just crushed a cockroach:

– Johnson, maybe you should get some glasses.

– I'm sorry. – Emily straightens up, somehow gathering her papers into one disheveled pile. – I'm sorry.

Clark is so close that in the cold light of the lamps Emily can see the scattering of moles on her collarbones and barely visible freckles on her shoulders – where the collar of her gray blouse ends. The neurosurgeon is only half a head taller than she is, and those centimeters probably add to her heels, so Emily, who had previously thought Clark was tall for some reason, feels her lips stretch into a smile: she finds this fragility cute as hell.

Apparently Clark runs out of words for this insolence, because she continues to stare at the nurse in silence, waiting for further developments.

Emily notices a shiny plastic rectangle at her feet and quickly, in one swoop, picks it up off the floor. Black embossed letters stand out clearly on the white background: "Lorraine Clark, neurosurgeon.

Lorraine, then.

Now that the distance between them is less than twenty centimeters, Emily can clearly smell lemon (that's what hand sanitizer smells like) and a bitter coffee scent; and Dr. Clark, who had seemed like Satan to her, is taking on more human characteristics.

– Again, I'm sorry. I was just wondering… Oh," she only now notices another folder in Clark's hands, "that's from Thirteen, isn't it?

Emily doesn't expect an answer. Her question is rather rhetorical – the numbers are written in black bold marker, it's hard not to see; especially Clark was operating on one of the patients in the room, she probably wants to make sure that everything goes well…

But the neurosurgeon suddenly exchanges anger for mercy and answers in a completely calm, casual tone:

– We want to take another look at the scans. I'll leave the charts with the nurse on duty when I leave, so you can pick them up tomorrow morning.

– I've got overnight duty tomorrow…

Clark's lips curve into a semblance of a smile:

– Good luck.

She walks away so fast that it seems as if she can hear the air parting around her. Emily silently escorts her gaze to the skinny figure of the neurosurgeon disappearing out the door, and sighs.

The sun in her pocket flashes with hope for a second – and then goes out at once.

There is no one in the thirty-thirteen except her two wards. Both Doe are asleep, the lights above their heads dimmed, only the staff call button flickers brightly, and the barely audible, monotonous beep of the pulse oximeter breaks the silence.

Emily carefully takes out a blank form, squinting in the half-light, takes readings; trying not to wake her, she barely audibly moves around the room, adjusting the blankets and closing the blinds; picks up the dirty cups, checks the room temperature; finally, puts the completed sheets back in a large hanging file.

And walks out without looking back.

* * *

Duty shifts at Royal London Hospital differ from night shifts in that there is not even a hint of rest. Every junior staff member goes through another round of hell at least once a week, scurrying around the waiting room and helping with incoming patients.

This is Emily's twentieth time, and as she changes in the locker room, she mentally (and proudly) calls herself a veteran – even if it's little reason to be proud of herself, the nurse is happy: the busy night promises to be productive, thought-provoking, and unrelaxing.

The break room is noisy, smells of coffee and spicy Chinese food – one of the many residents eagerly eats noodles from a box, watching a soap show on TV. A woman sitting on the other side of the couch is upside down reading an anatomy book; another is talking loudly with Harmon, waiting for dinner to warm up in the microwave:

– By the way, Apple invented a watch that can do an EKG! What about us? We don't have all the nurses on the ward trained to do it…! What are they getting paid for, you ask?

James takes her around the waist and awkwardly kisses her cheek; the woman immediately flushes and playfully taps his forehead with a spoon.

At a small table, three Indian-looking men, armed with a tablet, are watching a video about robots. The thinnest and tallest one keeps hitting the table with his palm and shouting something in a language Emily does not know. The other two are nodding their heads in agreement, setting him back down.

A few feet away, another nurse is playing online checkers.

Emily walks over to the wide-open window and breathes in with her chest full – the rain that started last night doesn't even think about stopping; the room is chilly, to say the least.

– Oh, Johnson! – Harmon pulls away from the conversation and notices her. – You're in surgery with Gilmore today. – He holds out a red mug with the NESCAFE logo, and against the grayness of the sky it seems like a bright flash. – With Gilmore, yes," he repeats, looking intently at Emily. – Consider the cure.

The bitter, strong coffee burns her palate and fills her half-empty stomach. Emily nods appreciatively – and suddenly gets a smile in return.

And it nudges her forward.

– Dr. Harmon, what do you know about Dr. Clark?

The resident seems to have been expecting this question since her very first day on the ward. He grins, shoves his hands into the pockets of his gown, and takes out a cigarette and puts it behind his ear for some reason.