But something isn't right. She feels it: there is no magic without real sacrifice, without tantrums and sobs and thoughts of bad things; there is no smoke without fire, her father used to say.

Clark doesn't take his eyes off her.

Emily moves blindly, groping in the darkness, unaware that the light at the end of the hallway will eat her up.

She's about to ask her, right now, and all the words get stuck in her throat, because to say something against it is to show herself to be an ungrateful, insensitive creature.

But she's wrong.

– Because I don't like you," Clark replies in a completely serious tone. – You irritate me, Johnson. That's why you're the one who's going to be next to me. Someone has to be, right?

– But…

– I'm not going to be the fairy godmother," the neurosurgeon cut him off. – I'm not going to mess with you, teach you, do your job. You want to throw yourself on the grenade? Go ahead. But if you screw up, Johnson, remember, this isn't a place to start over.

– But…

– Try to understand one thing. – Clark flips open his laptop. – To become someone, you have to do something.

She plunges into the computer, letting it be known that she's finished; and Emily keeps standing there looking at her, nervously tugging at the already annoying fabric of her turtleneck.

Go in a straight line, not to the bottom.

Figure out what you want.

She gathers more air in her chest.

– Dr. Clark…

The neurosurgeon turns his gaze to her.

– I want to work with you.

* * *

– The department has seven operating rooms. – Harmon's marching orders. – With two general surgeons, Davis and Gilmore, and two neurosurgeons, Clark and Neal, remember? We have two teams here, yes, but you should only care about yours. Remember: two surgeons, two neurosurgeons, and one chief. The chief is Moss, who's our neurologist, so.

– To go into surgery, you have to go through Powell or Higgins first. – He walks swiftly through the corridors of the department. – Then the neurologists. Yeah, let's go again: first the generalists, then the neurologists and finally the neurosurgeons, remember? This one's planned, it'll go in the plan, so you'll write it down in the chart and prepare it. You know how to prepare, right? You learned it, didn't you? If everything's good, you turn on the UV light for about -20 minutes, that's it, and you go and do the clothes. If you feel something's wrong, you tell the nurses to go. The orderlies, then, you take – or you call Mel, yes, Mel will always answer – and they have to do everything. By themselves, yes…

The corridors change to an operating room – glass doors, the smell of disinfectants, silence, a big sign with the surgeon's name and the number of the operating room.

She seems to be taking a good chance this time, or maybe it's just Charlie dropping in without knocking, bringing in more magic; but Clark, taken aback by the insolence, just nods and switches to her brother.

It's like hitting the jackpot.

Winning the lottery.

This time Emily is smart enough not to elaborate on why the answer is exactly that, and a quarter of an hour later she's already tailing Harmon, barely able to remember so much information.

– Clark has two nurses on the team: Sarah and you, yes; also Demp, the anesthesiologist, and the surgeon, who is Gilmore; and that's it, she's had enough – two nurses, Demp and Gilmore, remembered…? The second team, yes, Neal has the first.

He shows the sterile area through the clear glass: cabinets with sterilizers, a drying oven with envelopes, a safe with chemicals, a huge autoclave; you can also see the next room, the pre-op room: two sinks with elbow taps, dispensers, an iron safe. He tells us: this is all a super-clean operating room, where sterile air is constantly pressurized with a laminar flow through a bacterial filter.

– The cleaning of the operating room is all on the orderlies," Harmon repeats. – You only turn on the U.V. flashbulb, okay? Sarah and you have tools on, yes, processing; and paperwork. Lots of paper. Nothing extra, don't get your hopes up, at best she'll let you hold the drainage, at worst you'll be counting tampons afterwards, yeah, like a nurse. And what did you want, Johnson, you're not a surgical assistant, no, just a nurse, yeah. With a lot of new responsibilities.

– How long have they been working together? – Emily asks, while Harmon rummages through her closet, looking for clothes. – The whole crew.

– Nah," the resident shakes his head, going through hundreds of bags. – Demp didn't come in till January before last, and Sarah was right behind him; but the surgeon and he had been together for over three years, even before Moss…

– How long ago did Moss come?

– I wouldn't say," says Harmon, astonished, as he takes out a black hirsute suit. – Maybe two years ago, maybe three. Three, right? This is for you.

The dense black cotton pulls nicely on his hands; it smells sterile and new fabric. A simple, basic uniform: two sets of T-shirts and pants with an elastic band, but Emily holds the package in her hands in awe, afraid to move.

She's never been this close to a dream before.

– You have stars in your eyes, yes, stars," Harmon smiles.

She flashes, biting her lips, but she can't stop glowing; and the sun in her pocket, long forgotten, almost petrified, shines brighter than usual.

Harmon takes care of her – unexpectedly and pleasantly – once again briefly recounting all kinds of materials, from sutures to dressings, makes her practice on him by tying and untying her robe, gives her a smack when Emily mislays her optics, and laughs with her afterward.

– Let's do it again, come on, yes, do it again.

– Hands," says Emily, "hands to standard, dress herself, cover with Mayo covers, dress the others, treat the field, then incise film…

A smack.

– Ow! What for?!

– What tape," Harmon shakes his head, "you're not transplanting a kidney, so you won't have a field there, others will do it for you, yes, and Sarah helps you dress, yes, and then you help her, remember, so no tape, Sarah does.

Emily rolls her eyes.

– Okay, got it. Next up, stand to the right of Clark…

She successfully dodges the next smack.

– From the chief surgeon," Johnson corrects herself. – I remember: instruments, swabs, absorbent cotton, drainage…