– Don't imagine," the neurosurgeon interrupts her wearily. – It's all right, Johnson.

– I'm sorry. – Emily lowers her gaze. – I have to go. I'm sorry," she says again, turning around.

She doesn't see Clark staring after her, glaring back at her, nor does she see the neurosurgeon squaring his warmed shoulders and opening his lips, about to call out to her.

But she gives up and trudges back into the icy cold of the hospital.

The smell of menthol smoke wafts up her nose and tickles her throat.

Here we go, Emily thinks, leaning against the cool glass of the bus.

Now her coat smells like Clark cigarettes.

* * *

How Emily gets through the next week, she doesn't know. The world turns into a solid lack of sleep, diluted with flashes of events and tons of practice. Emily learns the classification of substances, and the names make her dizzy. Aerran, Plasma-Lite, Rocuronium, Voluven… When anesthesia drugs are added to the solutions, Emily is ready to cut her hair like a nun – there are ten types of Propofol in her lectures, and there are also Arduan, Sevoflurane, and Nimbex, and each differs from the other in its active composition. One good thing is that they go through the topic of preparing a surgeon for surgery in a couple of hours on the first day, work with papers in another hour, and spend the rest of the time in the practice rooms, where, with masks covering their faces, they learn disinfection all over again.

But what Emily likes best is the instrument lectures. And even though they learned it in more than one class at St. George's College, the accelerated course now gave her more knowledge than her previous place of study. Some of it, of course, she knew; but the instruments of neuro- and cardiac-surgery made her feel childlike – extra-light, made of special alloys, fitting perfectly in the palm of her hand, all those needles and clamps and corneas allowed her to close her eyes for a split second and imagine herself a real surgeon in the operating room.

They laughed – often, loudly, noisily; all seventeen of their group, surrounded by an elderly professor with a sharp tongue, teased and taunted each other; learned to identify instruments with closed eyes, by feel; drank hot tea from plastic cups, confused names, then repeated them again, tied numerous gowns, memorized knot names and sterilization rules, honed sequences of preparation for operations until the pulse dropped.

Melissa does give her a robe – old and smelly with mothballs, three sizes big, with sleeves always falling down and without one button, but Emily is happy about it: the junior staff is not supposed to issue overalls, unless it concerns operations. So she secures the sleeves with pins, ties the belt tighter, and sews on a button during the tiny lunch break. The smell of mothballs wears off on its own – being in the disinfector room all the time definitely has its perks; and if it weren't for the fabric yellowing in places from old age, Emily would even say it looks quite tolerable.

The courses started at noon, ended at eight, and right after, Emily would run to her patients: the prospect of being without a week's pay this month relieved fatigue in an instant.

And then there was Clark.

The smell of menthol cigarettes still lingers on her coat, as if it had found its place among the wool fibers; and every time she opens her locker, Emily can imagine them standing in the yard listening to music again.

The song settles into her old push-button phone, sounds through her cheap, bad-sounding headphones, echoes in her head as she hums it to herself as she rubs through a mountain of instruments.

In a life filled with loneliness and a couple or three casual acquaintances, such a bright, ice-cold Clark has taken a pedestal of honor and now looks on from there, sometimes raising an eyebrow. What are you, Johnson, a complete idiot?

Emily smiles at her thoughts, silently doing her chores.

I should take Clark out for ice cream, she thinks. Chocolate and mint or coffee, and have cinnamon straws sticking out of the vase; except what kind of ice cream – it's about to get sub-zero outside, and the damn rain just stopped its week-long assault on the city yesterday.

I wonder which one Clark likes…?

No one even speaks to her properly; each time Emily comes to the room, takes readings, gives evening shots, takes her to procedures, until one night her fragile internal system fails.

The day before her exam and certification, Emily prepares the blind girl for discharge – tomorrow she is to be taken to an assisted living center where she can get temporary housing and the skills she needs for society; so Emily, with notes turning over in her head, doesn't even think that anything bad could happen.

But it does happen.

When the monitors explode with squeaks and the thud of a body hitting the floor from behind, Emily is already out of the room, so she has less than a second to react and support a falling patient, and no miracle happens, of course – no miracles happen in medicine, you should have remembered by now. Her head bangs against the foot of the bed, there's a pathetic, barely audible cry, and something bangs loudly against the tile, drowning out the screeching monitor.