– Because we don't have any?

– Crohn's to me! – Neurosurgeon commands. – Let's put her back together. What are we talking about? Oh, here we go. We could get someone to do some moonlighting. And this one," she points the needle at Kate, "how did she get in here in the first place?

– You forgot to mention how she made it through half the surgery… Okay, I'm closing.

– I'll think about it later. – Clark rolls his eyes.

– After the surgery?

– After she was fired. Johnson, what are you digging into?

*

Emily walks down the corridor, and everything inside of her is bubbling. Her fingers clutch the envelope: fresh X-rays, looking like a subway map, to take to Higgins, and then give some more folders to Mel and maybe go back to the usual routine.

Routine.

When did she start calling her regular job a chore? Probably the moment she first entered the operating room, smelled sterility, metal, and the subtle, subtle scent of Dr. Gilmore's perfume.

Mel always said: you can't straighten your back here, the walls are narrow, the ceiling is low; if you want to get up, you'll just smash your forehead; forget about surgeries, name forms, surgical help: this is not our department, not my concern, not your future. Just prop up the ceiling with your forehead, and go to work, bent over.

They're all the same – the girls who didn't go to school; they dropped out, abandoned, couldn't get to the higher caste, to the next rung. They couldn't become surgical nurses, they couldn't turn into interns, they couldn't work their way up to the senior ranks. All your life you have to carry patients, give them injections, put them on drips, and don't even think about anything else.

There's snow all around, and the roads are blocked. There's no way to get there.

And now Emily's in surgery.

It's like taking the sun out of the sky and putting it in your pocket: it warms and burns and shines, and there's no hiding or escape. Let it be a mere passing of tools from hand to hand, let it be; it is important, too; Rebecca would die of envy!..!

But she will not tell: the suns in her pockets are not told; they are cherished and kept, not allowed to get dusty. It is only hers, deserved; and it will be a reminder of this day.

And of her own importance.

Emily strides confidently down the hall, and the sun warms her pocket.

*

– Listen, Laurie. – Riley Gilmore holds the neurosurgeon by the sleeve. – I'll tell you something's not right here.

– It's just a fainting spell," Clark waves off. – Let's find another one.

– She's Moss!

– Jesus, Riley. – The woman laughs. – Do you see everything as a universal conspiracy? She's just a little girl not used to the sight of blood. Moss is a bastard, of course, but not that bad.

– I don't like it," Gilmore says. – It shouldn't have happened.

– But it did. – She stops abruptly at the coffee machine. – Got any change?

Riley rummages through her jeans pockets and pulls out a few coins, and the round silver pounds disappear into Clark's hands faster than cards from a magician.

– You're like my wife," he mutters. – You take all the money, too.

– You're divorced! – Coins fall into the machine with a clinking sound.

– That's why I'm divorced. – Gilmore leans his shoulder against the wall. – Will you go to Ray for a replacement?

– Pow! – Clark takes out a plastic cup. – No, I'd rather pick one up myself.

– You know the whole staff. – Riley can barely contain herself from a quip. – Ask Harmon, and he'll send you someone… normal.

The woman snorts.

– I'm not crazy to ask James for something like that. His interns are nothing but trouble. No," she stirs her coffee thoughtfully, "you need someone else. More… fresh? Without all those fancy letters after the name, you know what I mean. And someone we know.

– 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.

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.