– Dramatizing," Clark corrects her, gently releasing the cloak from the nurse's fingers. – Stop doing that and life will be different.

She takes a step, a second, a third; turns around for some reason, looks at Emily with a long look, as if doubting, moves in time with the wind, curves her lips with purple lipstick, and then sighs, turns her back and throws over her shoulder:

– I expect you at my place tomorrow at seven. And, Johnson, for God's sake, buy yourself a robe to fit, will you?

the century shrinks to a chamber-like "half hour.

pain changes gait, patronymic and design.

The heart will stop and a tear will run.

The author of the miracle will not give himself away like a partisan.

look, it's you who is turning into a miracle.

or they're turning into you

pre-trans-cha-

or are they turning into you

– I'd like to see the look on his face! – Gilmore laughs. – Is that what you told him? "My personal nurse"?

– Well, I must have at least something personal," grinned Lorraine. – Johnson, didn't you buy yourself a robe? Maybe I should give you mine.

Emily shamefully shifts from foot to foot.

There are three people in the office – Clark-which-woman, Gilmore, sitting on her desk and putting his feet in colored socks on the chair, and Emily herself. The clock read eight in the morning, the hospital was buzzing with life, and the unfamiliar London sun was shining outside the window.

It smells like morning: coffee, clean clothes, and nighttime dust; Gilmore is wearing a bright red T-shirt with yellow streaks, just like dawn; Clark is all in black, from the T-shirt to the regular pumps, and only the white skin is visible through the cut of his jeans just below the knee.

They hate Emily – those other people from the squad; you can see it in every gesture, in every look; and the worst part is that they all notice her now.

Olivia, her lips pressed together, silently issuing her pass; Melissa, asking to find another locker room; Moss, pressing her into the wall with one look; the other nurses, whispering in the back and pointing a finger at her.

Only Harmon puts a heavy palm on her shoulder and says something like congratulations on her return.

They know.

Of course they know, Emily scolds herself; only the truth, the other truth that Moss told them – she almost killed the patient, mixed up the drugs, was afraid to confess.

But she silently clenches her teeth, nods hello to Olivia, apologizes to Melissa, lowers her eyes to Moss, and doesn't turn around when she hears the laughter.

To go not to the bottom, but in a straight line.

If she could, she would write that phrase on herself.

– Drop it, Laurie. – Gilmore's loud voice pulls her from her thoughts. – Have you seen how much a good robe costs? A hundred pounds, no less. And it's more expensive to buy synthetics you can't work in.

Lorraine raises an eyebrow:

– I say, shall I give you mine?

An argument ensues in which Emily doesn't participate, only crumples up the fabric of a sizeless swamp turtleneck and examines her dusty black Crocs, noting that her next purchase will be jeans like Clark wears: black, with a high waist, so she can tuck her shirt in, too.

Yeah, except she wouldn't have the money or the time to be like Clark; Emily was afraid to even imagine how much the clothes she was wearing or that wide black stone ring cost.

Stop.

Why is she even thinking about that?

Because it's impossible not to think about Clark – there she is, right in front of her: sitting there, touching her fingers to her sharp cheekbones, smiling, curving her lips, arguing zealously, proving something; the round neckline of her T-shirt exposes her fragile shoulders with wings of collarbones; the thin chain of her bracelet glimmers with silver lights.

Gilmore laughs loudly, jumps off the table, picks up his robe, pats Emily on the shoulder, and, whistling a song, leaves the office; Clark looks questioningly at the nurse.

– …Documents.

Apparently, the neurosurgeon realizes that she hasn't been listening to much, so she repeats:

– I need to process you through the paperwork. Reinstatement, transfer and all that. Riley will talk to Dr. Harmon, he'll be your supervisor for a while. Harmon, not Riley, of course. We'll set you up as a teller, get you a pass, the right uniform, and even a cafe card.

– But the learning center…" Emily stuttered.

– The training center has nothing to do with our department," Clark cut her off. – If you knew that, Miss Johnson, you'd realize that Moss is just trying to scare you. You're late for your exam, of course, but you can at least count on an unnecessary piece of paper that you've taken the course. And if you're good," she grinned, "Harmon will make you retake the exam in winter.

The ball bounces up when it hits the ground.

He'll give you a retake.

A pass, a uniform, and a card.

That's not how it works, Emily tells herself, yesterday to cry and feel sorry for herself, and today to stand in front of Clark and feel the sun that has already cooled down.

She knows it is scary to trust in an autumn like this, it is dark and cold all around, and there are no miracles, but she wants to believe that all these last chances, all these magical moments are not given to the brave and strong, but to people like her: the frightened, the overcrowded, the overglued.

Factory breakdown.

An off the assembly line defect.

– Johnson? Are you in the clouds again?

– Why? – Emily bursts out.

Clark looks at her with a strange look – the same look she got in the locker room when she grabbed her arm.

You can't ignore me.

Yeah, that's not how it works: here comes Clark, tearing apart her goals and aspirations, sending her postulates to hell; rescuing her from her inner personal abyss, collapsing the timeline, pulling her out of her usual mode. Here's your card, form and pass, now you are who you wanted to be, so what are you unhappy about, Johnson…?

And it feels like Emily has hit the movies and now her drama is going to end, giving way to a smooth plot twist – now the that-something-wonder that the audience has been waiting for is going to happen.