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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?

– 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.