Behind him, almost breathing down his neck and supporting him by the armpits, was Higgins. Without his customary sandy jacket, in a bathrobe with the sleeves rolled up and glasses slanted sideways, he seemed to be the end of the world.

– All the operating theatres are occupied! Let's get him in here!

While the man is being laid on the room's only couch, he does not make a sound. The air is saturated with the heavy smells of sweat, blood, and kerosene, and countless scarlet drops fall to the floor.

Emily jumps up.

– He has to live to operate. – Higgins jerkily pulls up a dressing table with bandages, solutions and an emergency sewing kit. – We start with the neck, I take it out, you sew and treat. Do you understand me?

Emily nods.

The cuvettes jingle with metal, taking in endless streams of bloody bits, the built-in lamp overhead rattles faintly, the world behind the glass door rushes and flips, and Emily keeps putting stitch after stitch, wiping sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her robe.

The man is silent, just opens and closes his mouth, trying to breathe; and Johnson says some silly, incoherent phrases now and then: hold on, just a little longer, this is the hardest one, you see, yes, it hurts, you have to be patient, I have already given the injection, it is about to work, it should work now, so you must be patient…

Higgins, pulling out the splinters, keeps his eyes on her in tiny second intervals.

But Emily is calm inside-if she hurries now, she will sew up crookedly, somehow; and then she will bandage and close the terrible wounds, and who knows what this unnecessary haste may cost her. So her movements are precise and exact, only her eyelashes tremble when another drop of blood gets on her robe.

She doesn't know why she's so sure – maybe she got it from Gilmore, maybe there's nothing else on her mind – but as she finishes bandaging her forearm, Higgins pats her on the back and asks what must be the most embarrassing question she's ever had:

– Emily, why aren't you in the operating room? You're doing great.

She twitches – the needle falls into the cuvette with a ringing sound – she grunts, sighs deeply, and closes her eyes for a second.

– I only trained as a nurse.

Stitch, stitch, stitch…

– And then?

The splinter flies into an almost full bowl.

– It is very expensive.

And again.

– We have a training block* with a couple of budget seats where they'll teach you everything you need to operate in a week of intensive training. I'll make you a referral if you want one, of course.

When it's time to cut the thread, Emily feels this is how you say goodbye to your old life.

* * *

– Smoke, Johnson?

At six forty in the morning, Emily wanders around the hospital courtyard, shuffling her legs, having followed Higgins around all night, helping, bandaging, mending. Toward the end of her shift her hands began to shake treacherously and her head began to swirl from the constant smell of copper, but by six in the morning the rush of casualties had abruptly ceased, and there was a dead silence in the emergency room, occasionally broken by the slamming of doors and the shuffling of footsteps. There was no ambulance, no screaming, no sound of gurneys.

And there is a pause, during which Higgins vanishes, then, returning, hands her a blue cardboard referral card.

– Go home now, Emily. Try to get some sleep-and be in K-Block by noon. This is your pass; you mustn't lose it, I hope you remember that. You will give the referral to your supervisor. As soon as you've completed all the training and received your certificate, come back to me and we'll decide what to do with you next.

Emily throws herself around his neck, as if pushed off the ground. Higgins smells no better than she does, but Emily doesn't care. She kisses his bristling cheek and thanks him so much that Higgins rubs her hair affectionately.

– 'If I had known,' laughs the professor, 'that I would have made someone so happy, I would have given that direction as soon as I saw you. Good luck, Emily!

And now she stands, still clutching a big black bag with a hopelessly ruined robe, in a haggard overcoat, and smiling stupidly at the dawn sky.

The sun in her pocket is blazing, scalding.

Behind her the front door slams, soft footsteps, a rustle, the click of a lighter, and a familiar voice asks without a trace of sneer:

– Do you smoke, Johnson?

No, I'm not scared. It's empty. Only darkness is with me.

…The forest, closed behind me, stands a wall.

It's too late to cope. There's no use fussing.

I'm nothing

No one can save me.

Clark looked nothing like the woman Emily met in the hallway twenty-four hours ago. Dark circles under her eyes, hollow cheekbones revealing sharp cheekbones. Instead of a tight shirt, she wore a T-shirt slightly revealing one shoulder, instead of black jeans, she wore the bottoms of surgical uniforms and oversized pants with an elastic band. And, of course, no pumps. Instead, they were worn sneakers with grayed-out laces.

Emily studied her profile, the graceful, careless gesture of an artist; mussed hair, dry lips, long blond lashes. Clark is tired from the crazy night, Emily understands that without any more words; and she's also frozen: rare raindrops are still falling from the sky, and the pre-dawn frost leaves the feeling of ice on her skin.

The neurosurgeon, of course, with no outerwear, stands looking at Emily, and her gaze is brighter than any stars. Staring, but too jaded, not clinging to detail.

Human.

– No, thank you," Emily answers belatedly. – I don't smoke.

Clark shrugs his shoulders – his T-shirt slides even lower – and takes a drag. The intoxicating smell of menthol hangs in the air.

Emily takes another tentative step toward the exit, as if in contemplation, and then, with a subtle shake of her head, she turns to the surgeon and pulls off her coat.

– Put it on. – She awkwardly throws the heavy fabric over someone else's shoulders. – You'll catch cold.

The wind immediately dives under her knitted sweater, but Emily heroically endures, just as she endures Clark's gaze, which for a moment became a herald of the near end of the world.

Also in the nurse's head is the thought that if the neurosurgeon, after all, decides to give the coat back, drops it in the dirt, Emily will bite her head off.