Impuls

Emily nods frantically.

– How many colleagues do I have?

– Twenty? Maybe twenty-five. I haven't counted," Harmon grumbles. – There are only the younger ones here: nurses and assistants, lab assistants and interns have their own room in another building, yes, it's a ten-minute walk to it. And now it's probably okay to work…

He takes her old nametag from her, mutters something to himself, adjusts his glasses and leaves. Emily sees his crumpled after a nap white coat, and involuntarily thought about the history of Harmon: somehow he became like this?

And is ashamed: they are taught from childhood equality, and she shamelessly singles someone out.

She throws her things away, changes, drinks her cold coffee in a gulp, smiles into the void. The locker room is warm and quiet, even the water doesn't rumble through the pipes. The narrow upper windows are tightly closed, the lower ones are curtained with light curtains; and all that light has a calming effect on her.

Three hundred and thirteen, then.

* * *

Emily expects anyone: paralyzed old people, teenagers with serious tumors, pregnant women with heightened nervousness, men with a high degree of dementia, but not this one.

And if Charlie Clark was making a joke now, his joke didn't work.

Because there are three patients in a three-person room: a deaf young man, a blind girl, and something with a tightly bandaged head, brought in less than half an hour ago. Emily cannot determine age, gender, or even illness: the bandages start at the top of the head and end somewhere around the neck, completely covering the eyes and mouth, leaving only a slit for the nose.

Three cards – two completely filled and one completely blank – stick out in a special compartment at the entrance to the room; and Emily scolds herself for not thinking to ask Harmon what she should do now.

She starts with a simple one: check on her well-being, review files, write down vitals, and pull out the injection and treatment forms from the envelope. Despite the taciturnity of both patients – John and Jane – Emily subconsciously senses that they are pleased with her; that is why she entertains the girl with silly stories, and manages to get John a whole stack of crossword puzzles and a pencil. She does not go near the bandaged patient: without Dr. Higgins' instructions, she might do unnecessary things, and Emily herself has no idea what to do with it all. So she enters the figures in the blank card and puts it back in its holder in good conscience.

Higgins arrives at ten, takes a long look at another unnamed patient, carefully examines every inch of skin, and then tells Emily to take him to the treatment room.

– What are we going to do? – Emily asks quietly.

– We have to take the bandages off," Higgins says. – I just saw Riley at Clark's, so bring him in and put him to work. In the meantime, we'll get ready and go to the seventh, it seemed to be free.

With the doctor's help, Emily carefully moves the patient from the bed to a wheelchair and quickly exits the room.

Higgins is not mistaken: from behind the ajar door of Clark's office come the voices, among which Gilmore's bass and the neurosurgeon's own laughter are easily recognized. Emily shifts from foot to foot, chest full of air, and knocks.

– …practicing on a chicken, remember, Laurie? The bald one, the skinny one.

– How's your wife?

– Ex-wife… Come in!

Emily's wrong. There are three people in the office. Clark half-lounges in his huge chair, his legs in tight jeans on the armrest; opposite her stands Gilmore – a white robe carelessly thrown over one shoulder, a pack of cigarettes unashamedly peeking out of his pocket; on the couch in a lotus position sits Charlie – not even dressed in uniform yet, except that the badge swinging on his chest.

Clark-woman points the tip of her pen at Emily and declares loudly:

– Whatever you want, I'm not moving.

– I'm not here to see you, uh… Dr. Clark.

– Good for you. – The neurosurgeon puts his pen down and straightens up. – You want what?

– Dr. Gilmore," Emily doesn't know where she gets her courage, "Dr. Higgins would like you to come to Procedure Room 7. We need to get the bandages off of one patient. Or one. I'm not sure yet.

– Isn't that the third monkey? – Charlie interrupts her. – The mute one," he explains, catching the incomprehensible stares.

– What manners! – Gilmore throws on a white robe. – How did you find out about her?

– Higgins called me in early this morning for a psych evaluation. – Charlie stretches himself. – I told him there were no options. How am I going to talk to a mute? – The psychiatrist exchanged his hands.

– What makes you think," Clark-which-neurosurgeon puts his elbows on the table and puts his head down on his hands, "that she's mute? Doesn't she have a tongue?

– That's right, sister," Charlie nods. – A bloody mess in her mouth – and in her head, too. Apparently, something went wrong at some point, and they just cut off a piece of her tongue.

– God," Emily blurted out.

All three of them look at her as one.

– Miss Johnson, are you still here?

Of course I am, Emily thinks. Dr. Clark hates nurses.

– I'll wait…

– Look, Charlie," Gilmore lets Clark's remark pass his ear, "but come with us. You never know what's going to happen.

– Nah. – Clark rises lazily from the couch. – I've got a band-aid lady in half an hour, and I've got to go. I'm not sure I want to piss her off," he whispers in Gilmore's ear. – She's six times my size.

– Maybe she's just not very neat. – asks the surgeon cheerfully.

– I wish," Charlie sighs. – They're for weight loss. By the way," he ducks out the door, "Miss Johnson is doing a fine job as a personal therapist!

Gilmore just smiles and shakes his head, looking after him, and then gathers his thoughts and looks at Emily:

– Come on, Johnson. We have great things to do.

Emily sighs: Being a personal psychiatrist is the last thing she wants.

Chapter 7

I'll give up poetry and tobacco and learn everything I've wanted to do for so long.

They are collected in the evening right in the middle of the ward, just after visiting hours. A motley crowd of staff, united only by their white robes and bags under their eyes, surrounds two frail girls in strict pantsuits. A little away from them stands Melissa, her whitened knuckles crumpling the edges of her blue-green uniform.