Impuls

Emily sighs: it seems there is no more work for her – so she takes the metal container, changing it for another; she watches: Clark acts quickly, almost sharply, clearly moving around the neoplasm – from edge to center, as if carving a snowflake.

This goes on for about twenty minutes – under the reddish-white tumor the affected part of the brain becomes visible, and Emily hurriedly delivers a coagulant laser – Sarah, standing next to Gilmore, personally "glues" the rest of the vessels.

From the second lap, everyone switches places, and the drainage goes to Emily – she puts the tube on the other side, watching the screens carefully: she has almost no access to the wound directly, but she still confidently places the traction on the bleeding areas. And so they walk in a chain: Clark in front with the laser scalpel, followed by Gilmore, also with the laser, but with less power, Sarah with the neurosurgical tweezers and Emily with the drainage, as if picking up the dust left by them.

– Finishing up," Clark announces, getting to the tiniest spot. – Plague. How's that? By hand?

– Fi, how rude. – Riley hands the laser back to Sarah. – Get the micron ready.

The Microspeed UNI ultrasonic scalpel doesn't fit in any way with the white color of the operating room: bright blue stem, wrapped yellow wire, red display border. Emily adjusts it to Harmon's data in seconds: minimally invasive nozzle, single eights and zeros; hands it to Clark, who's been waiting longer than a moment; and gets back to her side with her elbows to her ribs.

– Be gentle with her," Gilmore purrs.

Emily, remembering Kemp's fussing over the Leica, is no longer surprised by anything – that doctors are in love with their instruments has never been a mystery to her.

– I will," Clark assures her, and presses the pedal.

She carefully polishes the area like a tooth filling, constantly adjusting the power with the foot pedal, moving from the middle to the edges.

In front of Emily's eyes, the swelling shrinks, becomes barely noticeable, and then disappears altogether: the drainage instantly takes in any remaining particles, preventing them from spreading; Sarah blows out the area once more, Gilmore prepares to put everything back in place.

– Wonderful," the surgeon says, looking at the screens. – Let's close it up.

A satisfied Clark pulls away from the Leica for a second, handing Emily the Micron, and suddenly shrieks.

The curved metal ball-shaped nozzle glistens in the light of the shadowless lamps for a second, there's a whirring sound, then the sound of the instrument falling onto the tiles, and the sleeve of her robe is soaked in blood in an instant.

Clark stands frozen, holding his hand palm up, blood trickling from the damaged skin to the floor in a thin stream, lingering just a little on the pieces of torn glove.

– Go, I'll replace it. – Gilmore, not even looking closely, takes her place. Sarah doesn't move either, and Emily remains the only one who can help.

And the neurosurgeon, still not turning her hand over, is already running to the pre-op – that's where the anti-AIDS kit hangs on the wall; Emily runs out after it and, after a change of gloves, opens the plastic lid.

Clark is pale as a sheet, even under the mask, but her hand does not flinch, and she stands as if nailed to the floor; she just reaches for Emily's injured hand – to pour alcohol, apply iodine, bandage it; cut the robe on Clark, push the neurosurgeon – right in the mask, shoe covers and cap – into the hallway, and from there – under the elbow, without panic, on bad legs – to the dressing room.

Clark's face slowly matches the color of her light green hirsute suit; and Emily, once again changing her unfortunate gloves, with a familiar movement of her foot, rolls up her table.

Everything she needs is already arranged in the container – all that remains is to decide on the nature of the wound. Emily carefully cuts the bandages, removes the remains of the glove – the wound, though cauterized with iodine, still bleeds – and places her hand on a special table with linens.

Emily opens the dry-room, rips open the kraft bag with the carpel syringe, takes out the lidocaine carpel, sets it inside.

There's a click.

She's so damn calm – no panic, no fuss; with one hand she holds the palm open, with the other she gives four shots to both sides of the wound – deep, but unexpectedly perfectly flat.

Clark silently observes the actions of the nurse: take out Hegar, pick up the needle, choose a sixteen-millimeter, clasp the needle holder in one hand; it remains to put the thread in the corner between the ends and the needle, pull lightly – and in a moment the thin fiber is already through.

Emily says out of habit:

– It doesn't hurt. Do not worry, please.

She's stitched enough wounds in her life that she doesn't even have to think about it; the body works separately from her: all the movements are honed, adjusted to the millimeter. The needle slides back and forth, piercing the thin skin with ease, Emily smiles, assuring her that everything will be fine, the tendons intact, which means it will soon heal.

– But the scar will remain," she says seriously, without stopping.

Seven stitches in less than five minutes, Emily makes the final knot, which she does with a needle holder, wrapping the thread around the ends, angling it to catch the loose edge and pulling it toward her.

A flick of the scissors, a final work on top, and Emily removes her gloves.

Clark, previously silent, pulls the mask off with one hand, tosses it into the garbage can, and asks in a hoarse voice:

– Who taught you how to load a needle this way?

– Uh-" Emily doesn't know whether to run or rejoice, "I guessed it myself somehow. It's faster that way. Will you allow me…? – She generously pours a piece of gauze fucorcinol and looks questioningly at the neurosurgeon.

Clark nods.

And so they sit, Emily, slowly touching Clark's arm, and Lorraine, keeping her gaze fixed on her with her dark gray eyes.

The neurosurgeon's hands are icy, frozen in space, detached, as if alien; Emily's are warm, light touches, more for prevention than necessity; and sparks flare in the thin fabric from each press on the stitched cut.