– Absolutely right. – The dark-haired man lazily straightens up. – Another man from the street… I see the information has already been gathered. – He turns his gaze to Emily. – Already something. What a strange anamnesis. What makes you think she wasn't sick? – The look in her dark brown eyes pierces Johnson.

– She said so herself. – Emily shrugs her shoulders.

– She doesn't remember anything, Miss-" she squinted, "Johnson. So what makes you think you can believe her?

I wish I had glasses too, Emily thought, I could see which one was Moss.

– Intuitive memory is hard to fool. It's more reliable than reflex memory.

– You did a good job. – The older man smiles at Emily, and her cheeks flush. – Come here and tell us how you managed to get her to talk. We're all very interested, aren't we, Dr. Moss? – He almost winks at Andrew.

Emily takes a step forward:

– I'm sorry to rush you, Dr. Clark, but I really need directions to…

– I'm not Clark, Miss Johnson," the doctor laughs.

– I'm Clark," comes a voice from behind her.

these people think that doctors live somewhere

for them: I wish I could get through, I wish I could shout;

Who will take the responsibility of collecting

those moaning with phantom pain in their shoulders?

Emily turns around.

The woman in front of her must be like a thousand other women; except that the world around them doesn't shrink, doesn't chew itself up, doesn't beat a cold, bright light in her face. And, of course, these other women do not look as if they are not human, but expendable. A pebble stuck in a pointy-toed shoe; a tiny crease on a perfectly pressed blouse from a new-fangled designer.

Her gaze catches Emily's, pauses a little, puts a branding – an annoying, nagging factor that it is not customary to talk about out loud; an unnecessary element of decor in the office; a formally donated statuette for the next anniversary of the company.

Of course she was mistaken, Emily keeps telling herself, just mistaken, saying the wrong name, just mixed up, well, it happens to everyone, yes, she repeats, trying to stare at the floor, but sees only her reflection in the lacquer of the black pumps.

– Ah, Dr. Clark! We've got another mystery here," the one who was praising Emily a few minutes ago announces all too happily.

– Send her to the diagnosticians.

– How did you know it was a girl?

– I meant the riddle. – Clark puts a Kraft bag and two cups with R&H logos on the table. – It's 8:00 in the morning, Donald. What's with the gathering in my office?

Emily, standing slightly behind the woman, steps away from the desk as inconspicuously as possible; bumping into the owner of the office, her supervisor, and apparently a colleague is in no way part of her plans for the day.

Neuroscience, in fact, is.

Standing behind a small cabinet – very, very flat, Rebecca would be sure to let off some unfunny joke – Emily feels panicky.

More than anything, she wants to be invisible: in all the time she has worked here, she has never found herself alone with such people in an office, and now she has no idea what to do: answer an earlier question, repeat her directions, or run away, forgetting to close the door behind her.

But it's as if she's no longer noticed – after some quiet negotiation, all three of them lean over the scattered pieces of paper, and then stare into the wall-mounted negatoscope: six projections of the brain catch their attention more than Johnson, who languishes waiting for the right papers.

Emily looks at the back of the neurosurgeon's head – almost white, short-cropped hair, a sort of pixie haircut that crosses all boundaries: torn strands and real chaos instead of styling.

The nurses also wore the same kind of hair, only it was more flashy and provocative: pink, blue, green, with the addition of dreadlocks, long bangs, or shaved temples, but it looked like they were trying to get attention. Clark, on the other hand, seems to find a breeze in every second, allowing that hair to be styled in any way .

– …patch it up right here," her slightly husky voice made the air vibrate, "see if anything comes of it. It won't be completely repaired, of course.

– Can you do that?

Clark shrugs, and the outline of lace underwear becomes visible through the thin fabric of her gray blouse.

– I'll try," she answers evasively. – But I need more tests.

– Speaking of tests. Miss Johnson is still waiting for her referrals. – Donald turns to Emily. – Moss is going to write it all out, wait for him outside, please.

– Dr. Moss," Andrew whispers, "is too busy for paperwork.

Emily doesn't know why, but she flares up like a Christmas tree, as if she'd been rudely answered, or rejected altogether; she blushes so red her cheeks are hotter than a fire; and Moss stares at her with an angry look in his eyes.

She has to get out of the office; a step, a second, a third – a soft footstep on the parquet, the barely perceptible creaking of the door, the sudden stuffiness and the strange, almost black sky in the windows.

Emily leans her back against the cool brick wall, and the air around her crumples like old dry paper. Scary words flash in her head: panic attack, anxiety disorder, nervous breakdown; but her pulse quickly evens out, and the decrepit paper air crumbles to ashes, allowing her to take a breath of pure oxygen.

She remembers: she is seventeen, a dusty path to the tops of medicine, dozens of books and bitten pencils ahead of her. Becoming a doctor, Emily dreams, saving people, deftly wielding a scalpel, saying "dry" to the head nurse, and having dinner with her colleagues in some quiet place in the evening, pouting cheekily, and stretching the words, "Let's not talk about work?"

Bites her lip: the tuition bills, the failed exams, her mother's sneers, "Daddy's very unhappy," George's dark red uniform: equality, they said, is the foundation of the basics.

Emily remembers the numbers: ten thousand dollars a year; one loan; two jobs; three hours of sleep. Pathetic attempts at self-indulgence: this is not the worst thing that could happen to a dream.

And the realization: no, it's much scarier than that.

She doesn't even have a pass like everyone else – you can't use it to get benefits, to brag about it in front of her family, to put it in a nice cover or wear it proudly with a ribbon around your neck. St. George is not a place to be proud of, and four years is too little for a doctor and too much for a nurse; just as the next forty thousand is another stepping stone on the way to quite the wrong place to be.