Brick by brick.

Here and there the yellow badges of the operating room nurses flickered, voices buzzed, the metal handrails of the wheelchairs rattled; the whole space was filled with sounds and conversations. Trying to concentrate, Emily leans against a cool wall in a nook and opens a folder.

Unnamed girl, she reads, admission overnight; under "diagnosis," cortical blindness, followed by the tests performed: visometry, CT scan of the head. In small handwriting, barely legible, along the bottom edge of the sheet are sprawling letters: retrograde. Emily clears her throat: How do you find the room of a man with no name among hundreds of other patients? The smart guy who filled out the chart wrote nothing else, and she quickly got the feeling that the girl who was admitted had simply been forgotten about.

She wandered through dozens of doors, searching for her patient, until suddenly she found her in the farthest room: three of the four beds were empty, and the fourth was hidden from view by a wide screen. Johnson wouldn't even have noticed if her palm wasn't clearly visible through the taut fabric.

Duty:

– Hi, I'm Emily. I'll be working with you.

And she comes closer.

She has a snow-white bandage over her eyes; the same bandage wraps around her head, visibly thickening at the back, as if after a recent operation. She is gaunt and skinny, as if she had been malnourished for years; and her skinny arms, covered with a network of scratches, move nonstop over and around the bedspread – groping the screen, clinging to the corners of the handrail, twisting the wires.

– Dr. Higgins has already worked with you-" she looks at the chart, "-Higgins. He prescribed some treatments for you. Do you remember that?

The nameless girl nods briefly:

– Will you tell me what's wrong with me?

Her voice is so calm that Emily is momentarily lost: Is she really completely blind?

– Dr. Higgins thinks it's some kind of acquired blindness. – Emily adjusts her pillow. – But the diagnosis hasn't been confirmed yet. You also have partial amnesia, but you've probably been told that. It's not so bad, because right now you can still remember events; but it will take time to get an accurate diagnosis. – She pulls out a blank, blank sheet and enters readings from the screens. – I'll take you for an echo and an electroencephalography today. Now we need to rule out arteriovenous malformation… – She stammers. – It's, uh, when your veins and arteries are tied together so tightly that they interfere with the flow of blood in them. You see…? – Waiting for a nod, Emily continues, "So you and I will stop by the angiography on the way; they will look at your vessels again. She sits down in the easy chair and irritably tucks a newly dislodged strand behind her ear.

– There is one "but. – The girl turns her head at the sound. – I don't remember anything.

– We'll remember together. – Emily prepares to take notes. – Imagine you're putting together a mosaic. Do you think you like mosaics? – Nod again. – Great. I don't need to know that much, but you try anyway. Okay…? Let's start simple then…

The scant information I've gathered is enough to fill in the blanks and find out how she got here: yellow street lights, neon signs on Stepney, screeching tires, and the lights of the paramedics' car. She, says the patient, had red hair – the one that found me. I remembered that because I feel like I had red, too. Scarlet. Like blood.

And confusedly, defenselessly she adds:

– You know, I wasn't sick with anything. Nothing. I am sure of it.

The scant information I've gathered is enough to fill in the blanks and find out how she got here: yellow streetlights, neon signs on Stepney, screeching tires, and the lights of the paramedics' car. She, says the patient, had red hair – the one that found me. I remembered that because I feel like I had red, too. Scarlet. Like blood.

And confusedly, defenselessly she adds:

– You know, I wasn't sick with anything. Nothing. I am sure of it.

She has no pain, only dizziness; and the screen shows elevated blood pressure. Emily frowns her eyebrows, putting it on the chart-she's never seen anything like it before.

She pulls her robe up again – the cheap, non-stretchy cotton sits after every wash – and rises from her chair, trying to stretch her stiff back.

– I'm taking the chart to the doctor now," Emily informs me, "and I'll be back to take you to the procedure.

"I'll ask someone which one, too," she adds to herself.

Johnson leaves the room, closing the glass door behind her, and carefully places the patient sheet in a special transparent folder – now anyone who decides to find out what kind of person is here can do so simply by reading the information on the form.

Emily returns to Neurology through the main passageway – she doesn't remember the way through the service corridors, so she just has to follow the signs – and enters from the side of the nephrologist's office. After wandering between doors, she finds the right one.

But instead of Andrew Moss, she finds Powell in his office, the same one Rebecca has been following. Eric smiles amiably, offers tea and, answering Emily's question, tells her that Mr. Moss can be found at Clark's. Where to look for Clark, he doesn't know, but he hopes it's somewhere nearby.

Because without Clark, they'll have half the department extinct, he jokes, and the sky reflects in his gray eyes.

But Emily gets lucky, a couple of doors down from Moss' office, she sees a sign: Dr. L. Clarke, neurosurgeon – and, breathing in more air, she knocks.

A low, guttural "Come in" answers her door.

Two male figures, leaning over a wide black table, discuss photographs strewn across the glossy surface of the wood: an old man in a business suit and an unbuttoned jacket, and a young, dark-haired doctor whose white coat hangs from the back of a leather chair.

An expensive white robe, Emily notes from the corner of her mind: she has dreamed of good form so many times that she can easily tell the difference between plain cheap fabric and snow-white cotton and polyester.

Both men lift their heads in sync and look at her so intently that Johnson is momentarily lost.

– I was told to take the chart to Dr. Moss. Mr. Powell advised me to find you at Dr. Clark's. – Which one is which, Emily still doesn't understand, but she hopes she can make out the nametags. – So there you go.

– Oh, is that the one, Andrew? – The one in the business suit reaches for the folder and opens it. – The one with no memory and a piece of brain?