The room with the "Office" sign is as gray as the outdoors – endless rows of tin lockers, slamming doors, drafts across the floor, and gossip hanging in the air, as fresh and bitter as the coffee on the bosses' desks.

Emily awkwardly waves to Rebecca, washing the bright makeup off her face: forty minutes in the morning at the mirror for the sake of a half-hour bus ride, and then the complete destruction of all labor. Completely, Emily would add, if Rebecca ever said hello to her. But she always pretends not to see anything. Well, or really doesn't notice.

Behind her is Dana, twirling and twirling-a short robe, her hair in a braid, big innocent eyes. Small and skittish, she always brings the latest news in her uniform pockets: Dayna follows her Mr. Powell, the general practitioner, everywhere. Sometimes Emily thinks they have a connection: Miss Webb's neckline is too deep, Eric's gaze is too ambiguous.

Melissa, the head nurse, their supervisor, is adjusting her collar by the large closet. Instead of a white coat over her clothes, she wears a strict uniform: straight pants and a short-sleeved shirt; her last name is embroidered in black thread on her chest. Walters, in her forties, has a straight, sharp look and a heavy gold ring on her ring finger.

Emily quickly removes her gray coat and stuffs it into a narrow locker; she fumbles with her pant legs, drops her jeans, and slips into a pair of sizeless pants. They are allowed to keep their own T-shirt; they should just hide it under the robe. Although some, like Rebecca, prefer to wear cotton over their naked bodies.

For junior nurses, the uniform is the same: white pants and a gown with an embroidered Royal London Hospital logo; a nametag attached to the breast pocket; and comfortable shoes – traditional loafers or loafers.

She slips into the unchanging black Crocs, catches Dana's odd look, Rebecca's snort, and habitually throws them out of her mind-something that stays forever.

Taking a sip of coffee from the thermos and strapping on her nametag, Emily hears the others coming up: the night shift ends, flowing into the morning shift, the front door keeps slamming, the cold street air enveloping her feet.

– Ah, Johnson, ready yet? – Melissa arises at her shoulder and picks up the neatly folded folders. – You're in neurology today – James asked me to send him a couple of assistants. Grab poor Evis from the E.R., and get over there.

– Neurology is neurology. – Emily gathered her brown hair into a high ponytail and fastened it with bobby pins. The unruly strands struggled to take shape, here and there the curling ends fell out. – Damn you," she says angrily to the mirror, pulling her robe up.

– What, you still can't get a doctor? – Rebecca tilts her head sideways; her thin lips are clearly marked by lipstick that hasn't been fully washed off. – Don't be sad, you'll get lucky one day. – She sends her an air kiss.

– Take this to Gilmore's surgery and wash the disgust off. – Melissa hands Rebecca a heavy plastic box of papers. – Let her figure out what to do with it.

The last thing Emily hears before she closes the door behind her is Rebecca's indignant voice.

* * *

– It was brought in at night. – The thin file is on the table. – Harmon says it's clear enough, but there's something about it that makes me…" He pauses.

The dark-haired man pulls out his expensive-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket and reaches for the thick cardboard.

– Mr. Moss," the doctor who brought the file continues, "there is a craniotomy performed here, that is, on the head.

– What exactly are you confused about? – Andrew Moss runs a glance over the scribbled sheet.

– Look at the picture.

He presses his lips together grudgingly – his shift hasn't even officially started yet – but still walks over to the huge negatoscope hanging on the wall and, fixing a small photograph to it, turns on the lamps.

– Do you see it? Right there. – The man who brought the folder points to the dot. – What do you think it is?

– A trace from a failed stereotaxis?

– Inside?

– Our brain has no nerve endings," Moss shrugs. – It can't hurt, Professor. You know that yourself. Maybe it's another tumor that hasn't been seen, or a neoplasm that's recently appeared. Well, maybe we should change the machine. Either way…

– Professor M. Higgins, GP, I've checked him in three different machines. They all showed the same thing – the patient does not have a tumor, only this defect. The gray spot on the scan. A cavity that looks like it was forgotten to be filled.