– So that is why I am here! – Emily exclaims. – That's why you gave me the chance, isn't it?

Charlie nods:

– Exactly. A year ago my assistant was a student with a lot of debt, and she came in for a job interview as a joke, and now, look – now I'm without her. I even know what time my workday starts, and I used to come every time at a different time. If you can, why not help? Everybody needs a little bit of magic sometimes. Especially in our town. – He winks.

Adding up two plus two, Emily has no time: in the pockets of her jeans crackles-ringing old, still broken phone. After apologizing, she presses the call button, but before she can even say "Yes?" the phone explodes and cuts into familiar notes:

– Johnson, to my office, now!

Emily jumps up from her seat; spilling her coffee, setting it right on the sand in the Japanese garden, muttering:

– Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me! – and storms out, miraculously not blowing down the paper door.

Charlie Clark looks sadly at the ungodly ruined composition, at the coffee stains sprawling across the carpet, and, taking out his phone, quickly dials a message:

Catch a bird.

Just wait. In the black coat of mist,

For yourself, for others who are not,

The black dot floats stubbornly to the goal.

I'll get there, and we'll light the dawn.

Riley laughs and pats Dylan on the shoulder; there are stray, lively sparks in his green eyes; just the same in his bright ruby hair. The white robe is lost against the surgeon's dyed-up, yellow T-shirt, blue-blue jeans, green sneakers; Riley is the living embodiment of the rainbow, a blob of energy and light.

Under the wide sleeves of her robe, she sees a dozen tattoos, from constellations to portraits, from hieroglyphs to runes, and the anesthesiologist Kemp, sitting nearby, pokes fun at them, saying, "What's the point of your pictures?

– I," he says proudly, "have a mermaid on my shoulder. Because I love the sea and women! And who's that, Queen Elizabeth?

Dylan is swarthy, tall, whipping; he hides dark curls under a bandana, now and then touches a scar on his lower lip, as if he is not used to it; thin eyebrows, protruding cheekbones – an anesthesiologist looks like a pirate who just came ashore; and black hirsute suit, worn contrary to all rules of sterility, only adds resemblance to this image.

In front of Clark sits Sara – a senior operating room nurse: Asian appearance, haughty look even a neurosurgeon would envy; black hair gathered in a high ponytail, leopard-rimmed glasses, thin fingers tapping impatiently on her knee. Sarah yawns into a tiny fist, waves her long eyelashes, and gracefully throws her leg over her leg, exposing a thin strip of snow-white skin beneath her short skirt.

The varnish of her high-heeled shoes reflects the light for a second as Emily enters the office.

Four people in white coats stare at the nurse as one – still the same stretchy turtleneck, still the same oversized jeans; no hint of belonging to their society.

Clark – now out of habit – grimaces disapprovingly, and the comparison to the squashed cockroach reappears in Emily's mind.

She slipped sideways behind the counter just outside the entrance, trying to hide between the closet and the wall, but she got confused in her own feet, almost fell on her side, and, holding the still unpacked hirsute suit against her, she pressed her shoulder blades against the door.

Clark raises an eyebrow.

Emily's palms are sweating.

The portable negatoscope, a screen on a tripod, flashes up; Clark rises from his seat and, moving it slightly to the middle of the room, points to six images in two rows in turn.

– Let's call these patients X, Y and Z," she begins. – The bottom is before, the top is after. One of them we recently operated on, another is on the waiting list for a planned, and this one," she points to the darkest one, "even tried to discharged. So that's three people. – Clark steps aside. – Who's to say what they have in common?

Riley squints, looking closely; Emily takes a tiny step forward, too, trying to remember where she's seen this before, but the surgeon beats her to it:

– This isn't the trio with no brain, is it?

Clark nods contentedly.

– Like three monkeys," Sarah adds. – Can't see. Can't hear. And won't say anything to anyone.

– All of our alphabetists opened up bleeding a few hours ago. – Clark points to the upper scans. – See, this one's clean, and this one's ruptured. Three aneurysms, all in different places, but at almost the same time. We've done both CT scans and MRIs and glucose before; they took readings in half an hour and everything was fine.