And her workday begins to spin.

In the hour before her first operation, Emily combines her job as secretary and janitor: she runs like a madwoman from neurology to the waiting room and back, over and over again, in a hundredth circle.

It's the same thousands of little leaves, slipped into the pockets of her jeans, the same bog-colored turtleneck, the same glances at her – a blank space, a misty grayness, a weed that has sprouted through the concrete.

Emily takes today's schedule – incomprehensible numbers, initials, designations; she scolds herself, hastily converts it on one of the free computers into three columns – time, crew, patient code; and no stupid abbreviations in which nothing can be understood. Thinking about it, she adds blank lines – let them be, she will make unscheduled ones later, it will be for her report and Sara's help.

She takes the folders, takes them to the archives, certifies them, signs them; she pokes a nametag that Harmon brings her – her pride: gray background, photo, Emily Johnson, nurse, Block F.

You want to take a picture and send it to your mother – look, Mom, what I've accomplished, how I can now.

Not to the bottom, but in a straight line.

She runs into Gilmore again and again in the hallways-the surgeon is unaccustomedly gloomy and taciturn, changing coffee cups every hour, frowning while talking on the phone, and a few minutes before the preparation for surgery even begins, he catches Emily by the shoulders and pushes her into his office.

And if Clark is impeccable brevity and polished minimalism, and Charlie is a desperate tribute to hippies, Gilmore turns out to be a real narcissist.

Apparently, he shares an office with two other doctors: the simplicity of the loft-like decor is obscured by a wall full of diplomas and photographs. Emily wouldn't be surprised to see a trophy under the glass – the title "Most Narcissistic Surgeon – 2018" would definitely go to Gilmore.

She cautiously sits down in one of the two chairs by his desk – the same glass one Clark has – and looks questioningly at the doctor.

– We have a problem.

Emily consults a sheet of paper:

– We're scheduled to operate on Miss Mills at eleven. Stem glioma, stage one, along with Dr. Neal's team and…

– She's anemic," interrupts a plump Gilmore in her chair. – And she's Zoroastrian.

– Is that a disease?

– Worse. Religion.

Emily shrugs:

– So?

– Her… uh… God? What do they call their priest over there? Not the point. Anyway, he forbids blood transfusions, and we can't risk putting her under the knife with anemia. – Riley taps his fingers on the tabletop.

– We could use a substitute," Emily suggests. – A preservative…

– You don't get it. Her religion forbids medical interventions in general. – He holds out to her a thin folder with just one sheet. – The cells of this crap have already grown into healthy tissue and, in some places, have even replaced it. We've stopped the development, of course, but the glial cells don't want to function normally-so what's inside her can't be stopped. Only to cut it.

Emily remembers the volume of the Bible, carefully lying in the top drawer of the nightstand, and somehow she becomes ashamed.

– Is there really no choice?

– It's a combo, Johnson: Ataxia, hypertension, even nystagmus. They brought her in at night with seizures, put her on the plan in the window, and the plan was busy, but the patient wasn't there. In the morning came her … uh … colleagues, said the good news.

– What about her? – Emily frowns, returning the folder: you can't learn much from one sheet of paper, and the scans and basic papers are probably already in the operating room itself.

– She's a fanatic. – The surgeon presses his lips together. – There's nothing to be done. It's not like we're going to beat her up to get consent. So maybe we shouldn't try to make tea in cold water, but rather rest?

Emily looks at him in surprise.

– You mean," she says slowly, frowning, "just give up? Is that what it turns out to be? What does Dr. Higgins say?

– Higgins? – Gilmore adjusts all the objects on the table, automatically. – What about Higgins? He diagnosed him, scheduled the surgery, what else can we get from him?