She was still lucky – it was rare to find a good job after such poor training; and money for another qualification was scarce, and dreams of promotion were safely and far hidden.

So she lowers her gaze to the floor, but Wood no longer pays attention to her; he doesn't seem to care at all-he didn't even ask her name, and he certainly doesn't care what she does.

The neurology department seems times larger than her usual orthopedics or waiting room: behind the giant glass doors is a wide light-beige corridor with many branches; here, wrapped in ebony frames, are the service aisles to the operating rooms and laboratories.

Wood and lofty, brick-and-white finishes are everywhere; by every ivory door are signs: neurologist, neurosurgeon, nephrologist, senior resident, room for junior staff. The biggest door, of course, is by the department head's office: Professor Donald Ray's waiting room, the gilded sign reads.

– I'm going to go find James. Will you wait or come with me? – Wood doesn't even turn around, talking to the wall.

Emily shrugs uncertainly; Avis snorts and, contrary to her expectations, turns down a small corridor on her way to the operating rooms. They put their badge to the lock and push open a barely visible gray door, and enter the lounge of the operating room's junior staff.

Johnson gazes enviously at the huge, airy, light-filled room: upholstered couches, a television, a small kitchen with a red coffee machine humming, a large cooler by the book stacks; another door leads to locker rooms and showers.

On the dark blue couch, a dark-haired man lazily flips through the pages of a reference book. He would seem overly brutal – broad shoulders, three-day stubble, a tattoo above his elbow – but tiny round glasses give his face a strange, almost childlike expression.

– Dr. Harmon? – Avis clears his throat, drawing attention.

– Ah, Wood! – The man pulls back from his book and squints, as if the dioptres in his glasses weren't enough to see them both. – God bless your Mel! We've got four people who didn't make it out today, and all of them are Mary's! So we need new hands, ha ha, that's right, hands. – He laughs. – Here I've asked her, so she can help me out by sending one of her own; maybe we can manage that at least. – Harmon speaks so fast that Emily can hardly perceive the flow of words. – So, hee-hee, get your feet in your hands and go, hee-hee, put our vegetables on shelves, thank God, not the morgue, just the ward shelves, yes, the ward shelves…

He stands up, and Emily involuntarily takes a step back: only now does she notice that James has a large burn scar on the right side of his cheek, the way the burning skin charred and torn like paper. It's as if Harmon is reading her mind – touching the burnt skin with his fingertips, muttering: "Stop staring," and looks her down from above: he's two heads taller than Jones and much broader in the shoulders, making her feel like a real giant; and in the doctor's round glasses she sees her frightened face.

Avis pokes her in the side with a sharp elbow, and Emily looks down ashamed.

– Patients, uh, yes, patients … There's one with a history of stroke, and he wants general anesthesia, what a fool, yes, with a stroke – to general, well, the fool, well," mutters James, after a moment forgetting about the incident. – So if you see something like that, you'd better let me know, you're not stupid, are you? With a stroke – under the general," he keeps repeating, leaving the room.

Emily sighs: she never worked in neurology, but she had to prepare for surgery and take to the procedure, and more than once. A strand of unruly brown hair comes loose, and she tries to tuck it back in, looking in the large wall mirror.

– Are you going to keep your hair like that? – Evis's abrupt voice makes her turn around.

– No, I… uh…" The hairpin slid into the bundle somehow, scratching her skin. – I'm sorry," she adds for some reason.

Wood stares at her, and Emily's knees shake for some reason.

* * *

The wards in the neurology ward at Royal London Hospital are like rooms in an expensive hotel: beds with high, soft mattresses, staff call buttons at the headboard, drawer drawers by each bed; wide, light-colored cabinets along the walls; and water coolers. Almost every room has four patients with similar diagnoses; probably to make it less boring to spend time, or perhaps to make it a little easier for the attending physician. There are no televisions, but there are miniature folding tables hidden at the base of each bed; through the tinted glass of the doors, Emily sees that some of them have laptops on them.

When she first moved to London, she was fascinated by the British way of hanging curtains – thin, arched cotton in pastel shades, gathered in two places, so that the middle is longer than the sides. There's no such thing here-the panoramic windows can't be curtained; but by pressing the mechanism, the blinds can be fully opened and let the pale sun into the rooms.

This was Emily's first time in Block F: her practice was limited to the orthopedic ward, where she had been assigned to work initially, and, very occasionally, to the emergency room. There, the emergency room was the most interesting place to work; but unfortunately, Melissa quickly gave the position to another nurse, older and more experienced.

Emily turns her head, looking around like a child in a new place.

Neurology occupies the entire sixth floor of the building; only Oncology is higher, taking over two areas at once. According to the signpost, the fifth floor is occupied by hematology and endocrinology; the fourth floor is the giant immunology department and everything related to it; the third floor leads to the physiotherapy center and other healing procedures; the second floor is occupied by rheumatology with its many patients and the vascularization center – a glass corridor leads to the next building.

There were other floors, other centers, and detailed plans of each, hanging on the walls and in the elevators, but Emily never paid much attention to that. For her, even part of the main medical block was a veritable maze she would never climb into without a guide.

A giant anthill.

– Stop standing there," Avis says suddenly angrily, almost throwing the file at her. – Take it. Gather some more anamnesis and take it to Moss. Good luck with that.

Emily doesn't have time to say anything: Wood runs away, holding a stack of cards; and she herself is picked up by a maelstrom of white coats and carried to the wards.

Neurology is noisy and large; not as noisy as the emergency room – another circle of life's chaos – but there is a lot of staff, and Emily doesn't understand: how is it that only four people didn't leave, that they weren't replaced? And why did Wood get so worked up in the first place?

Thoughts bounce: too much emotion for one day; usually in her gray life everything is measured and scheduled, here a drip, there a shot, and here to help the orderlies in surgery; but today it's as if all her stability crumbles.