Mentally, Emily pulls out some reflective foil and wraps herself in it from head to toe.
The electronic clock on the wall reads twenty-ten-it's a little over a quarter of an hour until the exam.
– Miss Johnson," Moss folded the fingers of both hands in a triangle, "we won't keep you long, don't worry. I suppose you're wondering why you're here? – Nod. – Since Professor Ray's death, I'm temporarily acting his duties until a new chief physician is appointed.
Clark barely twitches.
– So," Moss takes the chart from his desk and lazily flips through it, "yesterday our patient almost died from a blood clot caused by taking the wrong drug, and the police, our valiant police, are very interested in the case.
He speaks so quietly that Emily hears the red-hot lights humming in the hallway. Neither Clark nor the head nurse make a sound, staring at one point in front of them; Emily just stands there, her gaze lowered to the floor, her heavy coat pulling her hands away.
– They already questioned us a few days ago," the neurologist continues. – Three unnamed patients, all with the same diagnosis, but with different causes that we were never able to identify…
– Andrew," Clark voices, "get to the point.
Moss stands up, resting his palms on the glass tabletop, and, looking furtively, asks a direct question:
– So you injected her with pherocipam, Dr. Clark. Why?
Emily flinches, and the coat at the bend of her elbow suddenly becomes heavier than lead.
The picture, hitherto blurred, hidden in the very corner of her brain, becomes brighter and clearer: Clark, asking for a syringe of pherocipam; her panicked face; the patient's seizure. And Emily, who can't figure out where they went wrong, who looks helplessly at the closing elevator doors.
– We have two medications for cases like this, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you their differences?
The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.
Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.
But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.
– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.
– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.
– Dr. Clark, which letter of the drug causes a depressant effect? – Moss asks in a pallid voice. – I'll give you a hint. The same letter that begins your last name.
Clark still silently drills him with his gaze, and red spots appear on his cheeks, either from shame or anger. Emily sees her fingertips begin to tremble subtly.
– I know. – The neurosurgeon's voice rings with anger. – There's no need to…
– So what the hell?! – Moss explodes. – Why the hell are you, doctor, prescribing a patient a drug that is incompatible with her life?! Don't you know how to read labels? Maybe you should take a leave of absence. We'll find you a great substitute! – He's still screaming. – You almost killed her, Clark! And just because you pulled that clot out doesn't mean anything! If it hadn't been for your negligence, none of this would have happened!
Clark looks at him the way she once looked at Emily, who crashed into her in the hallway – as if she's looking at a crushed cockroach that needs to be bypassed, or better yet, wrapped in newspaper and put out of sight. The neurosurgeon pursed her lips, but remained silent; she only breathed a little harder than usual – Emily could see the fabric of her blouse rising and falling in time with her breathing.
There is nothing to breathe in the room – as if the smoke has begun to encircle Emily's legs, pulling at her bones, climbing into her lungs and itching there. It seems that if she looks down, she'll see tongues of flame.
If Clark is to blame for this, all is not well.
– Dr. Moss," Melissa, who had been silent until then, spoke up. – "The thing is, the staff call button in Thirteen didn't work…
– I don't want to hear anything! – cuts off the neurologist. – You didn't even act with your own hands, you asked the nurse to do it! – He slams his hand on the table. – This is worse than if you had just stood there and watched!
Seven minutes. If she manages to escape from here now, she'll make it to the academic building in time for the service stairs. The hell with her clothes. She could borrow them from the people who had already handed them in. The main thing is to check in…
– I'm suspending you from work for a month. You'll be working at the clinic at their rate of pay.
– We have two drugs for such cases, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you the differences?
The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.
Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.
But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.
– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.
– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.
– Dr. Clark, which letter of the drug causes a depressant effect? – Moss asks in a pallid voice. – I'll give you a hint. The same letter that begins your last name.
Clark still silently drills him with his gaze, and red spots appear on his cheeks, either from shame or anger. Emily sees her fingertips begin to tremble subtly.
– I know. – The neurosurgeon's voice rings with anger. – There's no need to…
– So what the hell?! – Moss explodes. – Why the hell are you, doctor, prescribing a patient a drug that is incompatible with her life?! Don't you know how to read labels? Maybe you should take a leave of absence. We'll find you a great substitute! – He's still screaming. – You almost killed her, Clark! And just because you pulled that clot out doesn't mean anything! If it hadn't been for your negligence, none of this would have happened!
Clark looks at him the way she once looked at Emily, who crashed into her in the hallway – as if she's looking at a crushed cockroach that needs to be bypassed, or better yet, wrapped in newspaper and put out of sight. The neurosurgeon pursed her lips, but remained silent; she breathed a little harder than usual – Emily could see the fabric of her blouse rising and falling in time with her breathing.
