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Emily obediently hands over the forms, filled in Moss's fine, cursive handwriting, and looks expectantly at Mark: the general practitioner, in his sixties, looks forty-something thanks to his light clothes and some inner, radiant smile.

– She likes you. – He takes a pen out of his breast pocket and signs. – Our Jane Doe*.

– Where did she come from? – Emily mechanically unfolds the bedspread. – I mean," she corrects herself, "how was she found?

– Oh," Mark sits back in his chair, "it's a very interesting story, Miss Johnson. All she remembers is that she was found by the paramedics. They themselves say someone called 911 anonymously to report the girl.

– But the police…? – Emily frowns.

– What about the police? – Higgins splashes his hands. – They came, talked to someone from the emergency room, and left, didn't even take her chart. Don't you think they've got enough of Jane's kind? Though maybe Donald or his secretary will fax them all the data, but that's when it's-" He shrugs. – You know, Miss Johnson, there may be something you can do for this young lady…

– What?

The ringing of an old gray Nokia interrupts the professor. The standard message tune cuts to the ear, then abruptly cuts off by the incoming call. Higgins frowns as he listens to the caller, nods without asking anything, and then just tosses the phone back into his jacket pocket.

– Change of plans, Miss Johnson. Forget about Jane, her namesake is waiting for us. – Mark stands up abruptly. – The other doe has a complication and needs to be prepped for surgery. A cyst.

– The other doe? – Emily's looking blankly into the void. – Professor, wait!

* * *

– What the fuck?! – Moss is furious as hell, and the air around him is saturated with electricity, threatening to turn into a storm. – We looked at his labs this morning, they were clean, did that crap come out in two hours?

– We looked at his head, not his back," Mark corrected him gently. – And we thought the pain was from hitting the pavement.

– There's a sack of shit for half the picture! – Andrew turns around so sharply that the flaps of his robe fly into the air. – How can you not see it?!

Higgins only shrugs his shoulders:

– It's been too little time, Andrew. We haven't even finished the general tests yet, and a new pain has arisen. It's no use blaming the poor orderlies.

– I'll get Neal to pump out the fluid and put in his miracle patches. – Moss signs the papers one by one and almost throws them at Emily, who is standing next to her. – Take this to Ray later. Where the hell did she come from?" The neurologist puts the scans back in the envelope. – Give this to our surgeons. And take care of the patient… – he yells again and storms out of the room before Emily can say okay. Mark follows, not even glancing at Johnson, holding a pile of unstitched files.

The other Doe, in Emily's opinion, needs no preparation: he sits perfectly still and doesn't take his gaze off her. His chart was almost blank-no test results, no allergies, no-whatever, as if they'd forgotten to fill it out, and there was no time to gather a medical history. Especially since he'd already been to some kind of procedure-the nurse sees a couple of cotton lumps glued on with a Band-Aid, a fresh IV line, a fresh bandage on his head, too.

Emily knows: it's just under an hour to surgery, which means that now we have to figure out what he's been doing and eating before; and when you consider that this is another memoryless man, the level of difficulty doubles.

Well, at least he can see her.

– Hello," she says. – I'm Emily. I will work with you.

Silence.

– The anesthesia doesn't hurt," she continues. – But first I need to remove all your jewelry, braces, and piercings. If you have lenses or hearing aids, they also need to be removed for the operation. But I'll get them all back to you afterwards, don't worry. – The smile on duty.

Silence.

Emily begins to get nervous: dark green eyes of the young man closely watching her every movement, as if analyzing.

He repeats:

– Are you wearing any of the things I have listed?

And looks expectantly: maybe he will at least reach out to her, or show her his ears, or nod; nervousness is quickly replaced by irritation: let him already do something, as long as he gives signs of life.

Emily scrutinizes his face: barely noticeable wrinkles in the corners of the lips, a scattering of freckles, high cheekbones, circles under his eyes. If you meet him on the street, you think he's a high-school student, lacking only a backpack or a laptop bag. His head is bandaged tightly, so you can't see any hair at all, but one or two strands of red at his ear are dishevelled and tugging ridiculously.

* * *

– What the fuck?! – Moss is pissed as hell, and the air around him is electrifying, threatening to turn into a storm. – We looked at his labs this morning and they were clean, did that crap come out in two hours?

– We looked at his head, not his back," Mark corrected him gently. – And we thought the pain was from hitting the pavement.

– There's a sack of shit for half the picture! – Andrew turns around so sharply that the flaps of his robe fly into the air. – How can you not see it?!

Higgins only shrugs his shoulders:

– It's been too little time, Andrew. We haven't even finished the general tests yet, and a new pain has arisen. It's no use blaming the poor orderlies.

– I'll get Neal to pump out the fluid and put in his miracle patches. – Moss signs the papers one by one and almost throws them at Emily, who is standing next to her. – Take this to Ray later. Where the hell did she come from?" The neurologist puts the scans back in the envelope. – Give this to our surgeons. And take care of the patient… – he yells again and storms out of the room before Emily can say okay. Mark follows, not even glancing at Johnson, holding a pile of unstitched files.