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– Take the plots at twenty-five," Clark commands. – Rye, get ready… You're good to go, Johnson.

Emily instantly forgets everything she's been trying to think about for so long, and gives out a shameful:

– How's it going?

If Clark could stop her instrument, she'd do it right away; but it's too late; so she just hisses something resembling "brainless girl" through her teeth and shuts up.

– It's okay," comes the patient's faint voice. – I don't feel anything.

– That's good," Emily smiled. – Do not move.

Another silly thing: the girl's head is fixed so tightly that even if the bed starts to rodeo, nothing in her skull will tremble.

Through the endless beeps of tension, Emily asks questions: what color the sky is; how she feels now; where they are; and asks for her name and approximate time. Clark and Gilmore work quickly, almost without speaking; instruments clatter; a microscope barely buzzes.

Finally, there's a hiss-that's Clark literally welding the damaged tissue together.

– That's it, let's go to sleep. We have a mild lesion on the cortical terminal of the frontal oblique bundle. No lesions on the occipital lobe. The visual crossover is probably intact, but I can't get to it. Graciole's radius is badly damaged, as if someone chopped it up in the middle. I don't see anything else. No tumors, no abnormalities, no hematomas. No response to low frequencies… That's it, I've taken the data," Clark finally exhales. – Damn!" The instrument falls to the floor with a thud. – Give me a new tap. Kate, did you fall asleep in there? Kate…?

Emily takes a step, but not in time – the same nurse who was fussing at the surgical table, quietly slips down the glass partition; either from the sight of blood, or from the heat her eyes roll back, and she faints. Johnson stares at the body on the floor for a split second, and then takes Collin's corndog from the tray against the wall and hands it to Clark.

Her actions take no more than three seconds – as if in a dance: step, turn, step back; Clark quickly clutches the right cloth, Gilmore snorts disapprovingly.

– Let it lie. – Dylan taps the keys. – Then we'll get the janitors to clean it up.

– Damn nurses," Clark gritted through his teeth. – It's trouble. Why can't I get another surgeon?

– Because we don't have any?

– Crohn's to me! – Neurosurgeon commands. – Let's put her back together. What are we talking about? Oh, here we go. We could get someone to do some moonlighting. And this one," she points the needle at Kate, "how did she get in here in the first place?

– You forgot to mention how she made it through half the surgery… Okay, I'm closing.

– I'll think about it later. – Clark rolls his eyes.

– After the surgery?

– After she was fired. Johnson, what are you digging into?

*

Emily walks down the corridor, and everything inside of her is bubbling. Her fingers clutch the envelope: fresh X-rays, looking like a subway map, to take to Higgins, and then give some more folders to Mel and maybe go back to the usual routine.

Routine.

When did she start calling her regular job a chore? Probably the moment she first entered the operating room, smelled sterility, metal, and the subtle, subtle scent of Dr. Gilmore's perfume.

Mel always said: you can't straighten your back here, the walls are narrow, the ceiling is low; if you want to get up, you'll just smash your forehead; forget about surgeries, name forms, surgical help: this is not our department, not my concern, not your future. Just prop up the ceiling with your forehead, and go to work, bent over.

They're all the same – the girls who didn't go to school; they dropped out, abandoned, couldn't get to the higher caste, to the next rung. They couldn't become surgical nurses, they couldn't turn into interns, they couldn't work their way up to the senior ranks. All your life you have to carry patients, give them injections, put them on drips, and don't even think about anything else.

There's snow all around, and the roads are blocked. There's no way to get there.

And now Emily's in surgery.

It's like taking the sun out of the sky and putting it in your pocket: it warms and burns and shines, and there's no hiding or escape. Let it be a mere passing of tools from hand to hand, let it be; it is important, too; Rebecca would die of envy!..!

But she will not tell: the suns in her pockets are not told; they are cherished and kept, not allowed to get dusty. It is only hers, deserved; and it will be a reminder of this day.

And of her own importance.

Emily strides confidently down the hall, and the sun warms her pocket.

*

– Listen, Laurie. – Riley Gilmore holds the neurosurgeon by the sleeve. – I'll tell you something's not right here.

– It's just a fainting spell," Clark waves off. – Let's find another one.

– She's Moss!

– Jesus, Riley. – The woman laughs. – Do you see everything as a universal conspiracy? She's just a little girl not used to the sight of blood. Moss is a bastard, of course, but not that bad.