Mark sits in the chair across from Andrew's desk and rubs his gray beard.

– Why do you need my opinion if you already know the answer? – Moss frowns.

– You're going to love this. – Mark smiles at the corners of his lips. – Our patient has an artificially excised Wernicke. There's a void in its place. What's more, he remains anonymous to this day: he has no memory at all. Simply put, he has too many defects for one person. But it is nevertheless a very interesting case: Broca remains unaffected.

Moss adjusts the perfectly pressed collar of his expensive shirt and turns off the wall lamps. In the morning light of the study, the gold dial of his Hublot is clearly visible: the hands are inexorably approaching seven o'clock in the morning.

– Interesting. – Andrew folds his fingers into a house. – Mr. Anonymity with a clipped speech. – His brown eyes seem almost black as he squints. – Afferent aphasia, then. Remind me again, how old is he? About sixty?

– He's hardly twenty," Mark shakes his head. – Found him unconscious in the street, brought him here. There was blood on his head – they suspected head injury, they took pictures… And then you know. Someone operated on him and just threw him away like he was nothing.

– We need to find out if he had epilepsy," Moss returns the file, "or a hemorrhagic stroke. We also need tests for encephalitis, leukoencephalitis, heavy metals, protein. We figure out the cause, we'll get to the main consequence. And we need to show these scans to Grace.

Higgins rises from his comfortable chair, takes the thin cardboard, nods, and leaves without saying good-bye: as a general practitioner, he never takes a shift; his whole life is work.

Afterward, Moss pulls a perfectly pressed white coat out of the closet, throws it over his shirt, and walks over to his desk and takes his nametag – the words Andrew Moss, neurologist, stand out clearly on the glossy surface of the plastic.

Cursing, he slips a pack of cigarettes into his pocket.

The sun gradually rises over the Royal London Hospital.

dress warmer, please, autumn is coming, puddles on the sidewalk, you know the world will overpower you if you lose to yourself.

Emily finds "poor" Avis without any problems – Melissa's metaphor hits the mark: tall and thin, Avis Wood is asleep, laughing with his mouth open, right outside the emergency room. Someone has carefully tucked a thermal blanket under his head and tucked his glasses into his pocket.

Emily shakes him lightly on the shoulder, and Avis jumps up like a stung man.

– Huh?!

– I'm from Melissa," Emily explains patiently. – We've been referred to neurology.

– Ahhhh…

He smooths his disheveled hair and somehow slips on his glasses-the thin metal frames make his already gray eyes almost colorless.

– I'm sorry. – He rises. – I've been on twenty-four hours, and now they've thrown a day job on top of it. – Wood yawns, but moves with confidence, unlike Emily, who doesn't know where to go – in six months of work, she's never been to the neurology ward: it's the opposite block.

– On a 24-hour shift? – She follows him on his heels. – Aren't you studying?

– Yeah. – Avis nods, pulling her robe up tighter. – I'm studying at Warwick, we're on vacation.

– Still? – Emily wonders.

– Everyone's on vacation until October. – He holds the door open. – Didn't you know that?

– No, I…" She's lost. – I just went to a different system, I guess.

Emily bites her tongue: twenty years ago it was cool to go to St. George's University; now it's just for people who have nowhere else to go: there's a gray building on the side of the huge hospital, a lecture hall, proudly known as a university. In fact, her magnetic pass said she was a student in the MBBS4 program, a four-year course in medicine, which allowed her to advance no further than the level of a senior nurse.

She was still lucky – it was rare to find a good job after such poor training; and money for another qualification was scarce, and dreams of promotion were safely and far hidden.

So she lowers her gaze to the floor, but Wood no longer pays attention to her; he doesn't seem to care at all-he didn't even ask her name, and he certainly doesn't care what she does.

The neurology department seems times larger than her usual orthopedics or waiting room: behind the giant glass doors is a wide light-beige corridor with many branches; here, wrapped in ebony frames, are the service aisles to the operating rooms and laboratories.