Clark misfires.

Shutting up.

Closes his mouth.

Emily brings her hand to her face and wipes away the moisture with one motion of her stretched sleeve.

– I have to go," she says in a hoarse voice. – Folders.

– Laurie," Gilmore calls out. – I've got to tell Neil we're minus two.

– Harmon bailed? – Neurosurgeon grudgingly grimaces.

– He took three days off," Riley said.

Clark nods briefly.

A few feet away, with her back against the cold wall, Emily covers her mouth with her palm, letting the heavy flowers of resentment fall down.

* * *

It's so quiet in the pre-op room, as if all the background noise had suddenly been turned off, turning the power down to the minimum.

In the room itself, of course, she is not allowed: without the overalls and Clark's permission it is impossible; so Emily stays in the area between the front door and the operating room itself – in the very narrow space where the surgeons wash their hands – and again huddles in a dark corner, trying not to get in anyone's sight. Gilmore, after thinking about it, gives her a chance, but tells her to change into a hirsute suit and be as quiet as a mouse.

Through the transparent thick glass she sees the operating table, on which the young girl lies; even in this deep anesthesia her body is unnecessarily tense – swollen veins Emily notices almost immediately.

She sees Jake Neal, the second neurosurgeon, for the first time. He is stout, tall, with gray hair on his temples and an incredibly eye-catching blue-and-yellow tattoo on his arm (Emily squints to see sphinx heads and human faces), laughing out loud as he tells the old joke about the surgeon and the screwdriver.

He seems whole. And while Clark to Emily is the epitome of ice, Neil seems to her like a steady, living flame, calm and warming.

– Darling, put on some opera, it's so good to work to…! – His calm and soft baritone, without any accent, has a soothing effect on the nurse. – Bellini or Norma, better the former. He handles his voice admirably, the damn handyman!..!

Gilmore notices Emily, winks, turns on the machine; Neil heads straight for it – unlike Clark, he leaves the Leica calibration to the machine itself.

Emily presses her forehead against the glass so hard it hurts, but she can't take her eyes off the monitors: the surgeons' hands flicker over the ruled squares.

This is Emily's first time at spinal neurosurgery, but she doesn't see any significant differences in preparation – except that the patient is not on his back, but on his side, and there are more tubes and wires to him, as well as the people themselves – two anesthesiologists, two surgeons, four nurses and a couple of orderlies, sitting peacefully on chairs in the corner.

There is a click – the main flashlight turns on, signaling the start of surgery, and the red circle above the door lights up – the operation begins.

Emily tries to remember every detail, eagerly catching every movement, but it is almost impossible to see from this distance, and she sighs disappointedly.

And then someone coughs softly behind her.

– There you are.

She turns around – and slips on a drop of disinfectant solution. Awkwardly swinging her arms, miraculously not knocking over the sterile linen rack, Emily almost falls into Clark's arms.

The neurosurgeon stares at her for a moment with a strange look – I-I-didn't-expect-anything-other – and then suddenly speaks:

– How about lunch?

And I lay out my cards on my knees, and lie to myself about what's to come:

I shall live till the beginning of March, or before that I shall fall asleep in the snow.

I'll go to the scaffold, having laughed, to the resurrection, having lamented.

Or I am in boiling water, like sugar,

to the end

in thee.

Lorraine Clark does not know the word "no." Emily became convinced of that a long time ago, but now, looking at the neurosurgeon in her long black coat, colorful scarf, and tightly laced army boots, the nurse thinks that, overall, for a recently wounded and sick woman, Clark looks even too good.

And that perpetual gaudy purple lipstick that makes her look like a freak and exposes the pink stripe on the inside of her lips when the neurosurgeon asks:

– Shall we?

Emily expects Clark to take her to an expensive restaurant or even take her across town for a cup of coffee for forty pounds; but Lorraine confidently crosses the A11, turns onto Cambridge Heath Road, and from there dives into the yard.

No. She was prepared for anything – up to and including the fact that Clark keeps a picture of the Queen under her pillow – but not the barely visible "Blind Beggar" sign above the shabby door.

"Blind Beggar?" Is that a joke?

Clark pushes the massive wood away from him-the bell sounds melodically, the warm air hits his face; Emily sees rows of tables and sofas in the light of the red-and-yellow wide lamps; the clinking of appliances mingles with soft conversations; it smells of beer and roast meat.

A typical London pub: the owner himself, of course, is behind the bar, the waiters move around the room faintly, a fat woman at the entrance nods at Clark like an old acquaintance and leads them to a table with a "reserve" sign.

As they approach, the sign immediately disappears.

As Clark unwinds the endless layers of the scarf, Emily notices that the cut spot on her arm is tightly bandaged with a flesh-colored bandage hiding under the long sleeves of her sweater.

– Charlie showed me this place," Lorraine said, folding her coat on a nearby chair and sliding her tiny backpack on top.

– Unusual. – Emily follows suit. – I hardly ever go anywhere but home and work and the coffee shop," she admits, trying to remember how much money she has left and whether she can afford anything more expensive than a free glass of water.

The nurse's hands are shaking – she's so nervous, like she's about to take the most important exam of her life. Although, knowing Clark, she really could give her a test on the spot, and not on nursing knowledge at all.

Who knows what's going on in that neurosurgeon's head?

But now Lorraine is leaning back on the sofa relaxed and squinting slightly at the menu. Still afraid to even breathe loudly, Emily reaches for the leather folder, trying to make as little noise as possible.