– Anything out of the ordinary," Clark considers. – Caramel and salt, perhaps. Green tea with lemon. Mango sherbet.

– Surely these are the flavors of ice cream?

– It would be boring if I liked vanilla or chocolate. – Clark lights a new cigarette. – 'I don't really like sweets,' she admits. – I can't even stand bitter chocolate.

They stand, almost touching elbows, wool coat and taslan coat, and Emily lets go: in steps, minute by minute, by minute, but she lets go; and her head feels better. The cold climbs up her collar, crawls up her back like an icy snake, bites her heels.

She's always freezing next to Clark.

– I'm cold to look at you," Lorraine says, pursing her lips as if contemplating what she can do. – Take my coffee. – She holds out her glass. – As long as it's hot.

– But…

– Or I'll leave," Clark declares. – You don't want me to go, do you? So drink.

Unexpectedly, Emily awkwardly takes the painted glass – R&H, spicy mocha, cinnamon on top – and smiles gratefully.

– That's better," the neurosurgeon nods contentedly. – There were winds all the time where I grew up," she says suddenly. – The people who came here said you could fly to Ireland on them.

– You're not from London? – Surprised Emily.

– No," Clark shakes his head. – I'm from Southport. It's a tiny little town in the West, where it rains all the time and the wind knocks you off your feet. It's dull and gray, but it's not much different from London.

– It must be insanely far away!

– Not really. Six hours by car on the toll roads. On the free roads, ten.

– Then, yes, it really isn't," Emily agrees.

– Well," Clark takes a comfortable grip on his cigarette, "and where are you from, Miss Johnson?

– From the other side of the island," the nurse smiles. – 'Thurso, Scotland. It's a sort of settlement in the northernmost part. It's awfully dull there, too! But from the windows of my house you could see the floating lighthouses of the island of Hoy-you have no idea how many there are, probably more than two dozen! When I was a kid, I thought they were wandering lights, and I made a wish every time they came on.

– And what did you wish for, Miss Johnson?

Clark looks at her with a strange look – lively and warm, leaving no trace of cynicism or ice; in those gray eyes – the autumn sky.

– To become a doctor, of course. – Emily sighs sadly. – You probably know what it's like to dream of something more than just working in a supermarket at a gas station. I so wanted to be… useful, or something. Even though my mother kept telling me that I should go on with her and my father. But that probably didn't matter.

– So," Clark runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth out the disheveled strands, "your parents wanted you to be an entrepreneur?

– Mm-hmm." Emily jerked her head and the unruly strands of brown hair parted over her shoulders, "and yours?

– I have no idea. – Neurosurgeon shrugs. – I grew up in an orphanage.

Emily feels silly, awkwardly adjusts her coat, circles the plastic lid on her coffee with her frozen fingers, and, looking down, gibbering:

– I'm sorry, I didn't know, I really, really…

– Oh my God! – Clark presses his index finger to her lips. – Silence!

It's getting hot – scalding-sparkling, and Clark's hands are infinitely warm, gentle, affectionate; and even if it lasts a second – the smell of menthol, the silk of her fingertips – Emily's eyes flash in salutes in front of her.

– Stop apologizing all the time, it's annoying.

Emily nods:

– I'm sorry… Ow!

Clark rolls his eyes.

– You know what, Johnson?

The nurse looks at her frightened, expecting a catch.

– Figure it out. – Clark turns to lean on the parapet with his back to her. – Sort yourself out. In your head, in your chest, in your all these perspectives, wishful thinking and plans. To go not to the bottom, but in a straight line, you know? You don't look like a man who knows what he wants in life. No, no," she puts her hands forward, "don't argue. Don't even think about it. You don't know, Johnson, because now you're standing there feeling sorry for yourself, saying that my self-sacrifice was not appreciated; but in fact, in fact, Johnson, you're so caught up in this pity that you've become pathetic yourself.

– Sort it out," Clark repeated, and her eyes flashed, "sort out the mess in your head. All your 'impossible' stuff is bullshit. Bullshit if it makes it easier. Nothing is impossible. Because when you want to – not if, but when, mind you – even the water will flow back, you know? You don't have time to lie down and howl, get up off your knees-sofa-floors, get up – and go ahead. How long can we stay in this drama? I've had enough of Moss up to my neck, and now you; you reek of this regret. Don't you realize you won't be paid for everything in this world?

– Figure it out," the neurosurgeon flicks his lighter again, "what you want, set yourself a goal, go to it – go headlong, over your heads. Fall down? Get up. You broke your legs, not your head. Crawl if you can't walk. Cling to the ground with your teeth. But don't feel sorry for yourself, don't pretend you're invisible, because I can see you, Johnson. Because I can see you a mile away.

– You know our profession, you didn't just walk into it. If it hurts, you're alive. That's what makes you alive," she pads her fingers on her coat around her heart, "that's it. Not the suffering that's in your head. If you like to walk on the edge, go to surgery; they'll tear your kind off with your hands and feet. Get it over with, Johnson. You've played the game, that's enough.

Emily is afraid to breathe, greedily catching every word, letting them leave wounds-scarring inside, forging the metal plates that support her spine; and Clark is so close – you don't even have to reach out; and Emily grabs her by the fabric of her cape – thin and slightly rough, and looks into her face, asking, repeating only one thing:

– Why are you telling me this, why me, why you, why?

Clark looks at her as if all the words flew by and cobbled into the river.

– Well, you were so eager to get paid for what you did.

Emily frowns, shakes her head, puts her face to the wind:

– I'm sorry. You're right. I have suffered too much.