Impuls

– There's no such thing. – Gilmore pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his inside pocket, looks at it sadly, and hides it back. – You love the letters.

Clark is silent for a minute, then says thoughtfully:

– Look, I think I know.

Chapter 6

it will all be over soon. it will be over, I said. I will stop going to memorable places, like going to the Titanic for the hundredth time, I will remember who I am, I will forget who I have not become.

It seems to Emily that the world, which until then seemed gray, as if in defiance of all laws begins to lose even more colors: a few days pass after the operation, and the sun in her pocket dims.

She doesn't believe in fairy tales: she just can't get lucky every time; her luck just flashed and burned out like a match. Maybe for some Rebecca or Dayna, something like this would have been routine, just a small touch in everyday life, but for her, being part of something-albeit a tiny team-was a new, unexplored feeling.

And in the grayness of the days, in the sameness of the minutes, the slowness of the hours, Emily returns and returns to that feeling of the heaviness of the instruments in her hands, Clark's hoarse voice, Dylan's jokes, and the smell of the operating room.

It must be some kind of jolt: Emily feels like a ball – painfully falling and bouncing off the ground, she soars upward. And even if this feeling lasts only a few minutes, it becomes something more than just an awareness of herself.

Except now she's flying down again, and no one can tell if the ground is there.

One morning she doesn't have time to brew her own coffee for work – or maybe she leaves her thermos mug at home on purpose – and walks into Connors' coffee. The small coffee shop on the corner of Maples Place and Raven Row, which occupies a tiny square space, consists of a bar counter and a few chairs and is filled with a song about cough syrup. An elderly barista – Mr. Connors himself – is singing along, wiping down the bulky coffee machine.

– A latte, please. – Emily puts four pounds on the counter. – To go.

A large Kraft glass with colored lettering on the plastic lid appears in front of her a few minutes later; Emily pours brown sugar into it, puts in cinnamon and chocolate, and then inserts a straw – the unusual way she borrowed it from some movie. At first, she was afraid she'd burn herself, but lattes are rarely too hot.

The smell of coffee and cookies is soothing, and Emily lets herself linger at the counter for a moment, gazing out a large window with paper airplanes glued to it, at Turner Street. A stack of colored squares is freely available on the windowsill, and Emily, unable to resist, folds an unsophisticated figure.

And then – very unexpectedly for herself – she pulls out a pen and writes on the fold: NEVROLOGY. A piece of scotch tape and the bright orange airplane finds its place among others like it.

Emily herself does not know why she did it, but Mr. Connors does not say a word, but only grins into his gray beard, and Johnson feels a little better.

The door creaks open, and two voices, male and female, fill the coffee shop with frantic energy:

– What, R&H coffee no longer works for us?

– We need to drive more carefully.

– How did you tie these factors together?!

Still looking out the window, Emily freezes in place: she recognizes the Clark couple perfectly. In the reflection, she sees Charlie's disheveled curls and the perfectly styled (by chaos and wind) blond hair of the neurosurgeon whose name she never learned.

– Double, and more caffeine," Clark voices unnamed. – And for him…

– Milk and syrup! – Charlie finishes.

– No coffee? – The barista says cautiously.

– Half a cup," the psychiatrist graciously allows.

Emily lowers her gaze and pulls her head into her shoulders, trying to blend into the space; but trouble evades her – Clark-whose-woman quickly picks up her cup, says something to her brother in a low voice, and leaves, closing the door carefully behind her. Charlie is left waiting, leaning against the bar and dropping the incessant calls on the phone every now and then.

And then…

– Miss Johnson, I know it's not the best omen to see my sister in the morning, but I thought you didn't believe in them.

– Who? – Emily turned, blushing to the tips of her ears.

– In omens," Charlie repeats patiently.

He didn't look like a doctor at all, Emily thought to herself as she glanced around him, his short parka, his backpack, his worn sneakers. His dark eyes reflected the light from the light bulbs that hung from the ceiling like garlands. Charlie sprinkles his coffee generously with cinnamon, adds sugar, stirs with a thin wooden spoon. He doesn't even look at Emily, but it's as if she can feel his gaze fixed on her, studying her constantly.

– I'm sorry.

Charlie waves it away:

– Never mind. Have you made a wish?

– What?

Why, why does he make her feel so stupid when she's around him?

– You should have a stronger coffee," Clark laughed. – Origami. – He points to the paper airplanes. – They write their wishes and glue them to the glass. As soon as it comes true, they take the airplane off. You didn't know that?

Emily shakes her head.

– It's my first time here. Somehow… it wrote itself, – she answers honestly. – Do you think it's stupid?

– No." Charlie shakes his head. – No," Charlie shakes his head. "It's great. That you believe in something like that. We all need a little bit of magic sometimes. – He closes his glass with the lid and heads for the exit. – Have a nice day, Miss Johnson.

The door slams shut.

Emily scolds herself: she should have said something, maybe been more polite, said hello, for example. But she doesn't have time for self-consciousness – she grabs her coffee and storms out of the coffee shop: she's minutes away from the start of her work day.