Impuls

Aster

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.