And no more wishful thinking about tomorrow, no more dreams, no more music – gathering her things from her locker, through a veil of tears Emily drops the phone on the shiny tile, and a crack of spider legs scatters across the screen.

You are bright, all-powerful, with words hitting your temples, shooting to kill; who needed you like this, who needed this heroism, why did you even bother to save anyone?

She slams her palm against the locker in a rage, and the metal responds with a sob as pathetic as herself.

It's time to wake up.

She is, of course, standing behind her – the way angels stand behind their wards – and the robe, snow-white and lemon-scented, almost burns with its whiteness.

Emily doesn't turn around – there's not much stuff, but it's bulky, hard to pack, and she has half an hour to get it all together, then her pass is revoked. She'd have to stop by Higgins, only he probably already knows.

The sacrifice had cost her all her inner strength; she hadn't had time to think about the consequences.

– It wasn't worth it," Clark said. – I wouldn't have left, for God's sake, Johnson, he wouldn't have dared fire me.

Emily is silent, and her numb back shoots pain under her skin.

What a fool she is. Of course, who would let someone like Clark leave? She's the one everyone here prays to, she recalls with a crazy smile. The savior of brains, lord of stem cells; any other hospital would have given her a red carpet welcome.

Stupid, stupid Johnson!

– Andrew just wanted to feel power. An arrogant, spoiled brat.

The nurse is still silent, trying to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her stretched sweater. Clark speaks next, something about freedom and class, but Emily doesn't listen to her.

It was all for nothing.

She took a risk, put her whole self on the line – and lost.

The black crocs sink into the bag, tossed into the box standing next to it. The old robe remains lonely in the locker – Emily just doesn't want to meet anyone to give it away – and Johnson, realizing she's got it all together, freezes in place.

And she feels a warm touch on her wrist. The bare skin explodes with sparks and melts and sizzles; and no amount of fine acrylic ligature can save the heat on Clark's fingertips.

Somewhere in her ribs an exhalation reverberates – a pinchingly warm watercolor splash; a vivid color; a velvet; and Emily is afraid to move.

It lasts a moment – their fingers are almost touching, just a little more, and she can take Clark's hand, and it hits, hits the dry current all over her body.

– You can't ignore me.

Clark so easily jumps from formal conversation to a simple tone, as if they were friends or colleagues; so easily switches from the role of an icy neurosurgeon to an ordinary person, that Emily turns to her, obeying the slight, unobtrusive movement of her hand – and looks into her eyes, trying to see something there.

Some answer to the thousand questions that have arisen.

But things always turn out differently.

– Dr. Clark. – She gently releases her hand. – Please. It's all right. Better me than you. After all… It's just a mistake.

The door slams shut.

All that's left is fire.

and the truth is, it doesn't matter now. you became yesterday. you became paper.

and I, touching the tops of the towers,

losing my memory

from the heights.

In order not to finally burn out in the silence of the uncomfortable room, Emily climbs into the bathtub. Under the pressure of the icy water, her sobs are almost inaudible-first loud and desperate, and then internal, convulsive, turning into hoarse moans.

By noon the next day, distraught by the silence and her own tearful voice, Emily decides it's time to stop burning. I'm a soldier, she tries to impress upon herself, a fighter, nothing to be afraid of, what's the big deal, work; as it collapses, so it builds…

But she is not impressed.

Bare branches of early autumn veins bloom in the sky, and Emily swings open the window – as if the fire is afraid of the cold air – sits on a chair and tries to breathe.