– And my second anesthesiologist's gone," complained Demp. – I'll take Harmon, it's high time he changed his place, he's been sitting too long, let him be a resuscitator now; they can do without him in perfusion, it's no big loss. What is AIC? It's a ten-button design, you just sit there and push it; no, Harmon's not stupid enough to push buttons. We'll have it, won't you, Laurie?

Lorraine shakes her head, smiling:

– I like James. – His eyes flash with warmth. – Lure him over to us, statute says there should be five, and there are four of us, we'll formalize the anesthesiologist rate, still higher than what we have now.

Dylan glows.

– Moss was talking about some conference," Sarah pursed her lips. – Handing out pamphlets a couple of days ago.

– Yeah, I heard. – Clark sits back in his chair and swings open his laptop. – Ottawa, right? – She clicks the mouse. – Transatlantic. – Crooked. – I hope they send the first one. I don't want to bounce eight hours over the ocean for a couple of days whining about how badly we're doing our job.

– What's that? – Dylan asks.

– Anything," laconic answers neurosurgeon. – Neil will go, he has less problems than we do. Without us, everyone here would die. – She snorts.

They are alone.

Clark takes off his robe, deftly tosses it on the coat rack next to the door, runs a hand through his hair, taps his heel on the parquet, and dives headlong into his laptop.

The printer rustles softly, spits out sheets; the wind rages outside the window, the rain breaks against the tinted glass; on the black nightstand without a speck of dust lie three maps – those X, Y, and Z; crumpled cushions on the couch, an unsteady chair, papers scattered across Clark's desk.

And Lorraine – for the second time that day, she's got everyone's attention. She straightened, squared her shoulders, stretched her arms, waving her wrists; the thin chain of her bracelet jingled, and Emily's chest whimpered.

– We need to prepare the third," Clark says suddenly, not taking his eyes off the monitor. – In an hour and a half, there's an elective to remove the tumor. Get me a list of the days ahead of time, I need somewhere to put Cameron, there's a stage two. Get on it.

Emily thinks fast – nods, takes her phone out of her pocket, sends directions in text messages to herself: stage three, hour and a half, list, Cameron.

– Mark's birthday is Sunday. – Clark rubs his temples. – Needs a gift. Moss needs to send the stats from last month.

– Stats on what? – Emily clarifies.

– Your lack of intelligence, Johnson," Clark snaps back. – Use your brain. Mortality, of course.

Emily shuts up.

– Help Sarah with the paperwork, she's about to die under the folders. We need to fill them out and bring them to me to sign.

She rises from her chair, stretching – her T-shirt is pulled up, exposing her skin; her ribs protrude heavily forward; Emily sees the outline of her lingerie: lace, she never doubted – as if Clark could wear cheap cotton.

Lorraine walks over to the closet, opens the left flap, and pulls out another folder:

– After the surgery…

The door swings open, banging the handle loudly against the wall, and Emily drops the phone in fright.

Again.

She can almost see the keys shattering, the display hanging from thin wires, the center button flying off into the corner. With a silent owl, she yanks herself behind the cabinet, which is what saves her from the wrath of the interim head of the neurologist.

Andrew flies into the office, and the air around him is saturated with the sweetness of perfume; the white robe is draped imposingly over his shoulders, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing the large dial on his left hand.

A file falls on the table with a clatter.

Clark stares silently at the neurologist.

A minute passes.

Only then does he notice Emily.

– Johnson, not wearing a robe again," he says in a low voice. – What, you forget where you work? With your history, I'm not surprised. How about…

Clark pulls the white cloth off the rack in one motion and throws it over his nurse's shoulders.

Emily takes a deep breath.

Her heart begins to beat desperately; it feels like it's about to burst through her chest, bursting out, falling to the floor as a bloody heap.

The robe still retained the warmth of Lorraine's body, even through the thin turtleneck. Emily pulls it down with her fingertips, letting it slip freely over her shoulders the way all adults do.

And it doesn't go away – it's still there, it's pulsating, it's jumpering; Lorraine says something to Moss, who looks at Emily angrily once more, but turns away; and she still stands there, the white neurosurgeon's robe, touch it, feel it, smell it – quinine, coffee, lemon. Tension, disruption, an uneven rhythm, dry lips in an instant.

Moss walks away, leaving Clark with a folder and a dozen more papers on top.

– Johnson," Lorraine exhales. – Where's the robe?

She still can't move, just squints and shakes her head rapidly; the touch of the fabric against her skin is so pleasant, too pleasant; and Clark, standing an inch away from her, has infinitely gray eyes with black eyeliner; long, stretching lashes to the sky; and ashy-pink lips that speak almost syllables:

– Are you not listening to me again?

– I'm sorry, I… I never bought it. I'm sorry.

The red-hot air subsides, his heart calms, his breathing becomes easier – Clark takes a step back and turns again to the open closet.

– You're lucky he doesn't have a name. – She points to the breast pocket of her robe. – Otherwise, Moss would have taken three skins off you.

– Excuse me.

Clark winks away in surprise:

– Drop it.

Here we go again.

Again.

It's impossible to breathe with Clark, as if the neurosurgeon needs to take all the oxygen from the world in order to breathe.

She changes moods, jumps from "you" to "you", gets angry – and then smiles a minute later; and Emily can't keep up with her, afraid, worried, but feeling the pull.