“The small room - the emergency room of the district hospital - was thoroughly saturated with the smell of disinfection, government housing, pain and fear. Baba Motya, the ever-sneaky nurse, was grumbling under her breath as she wiped the broken tiled floor with a wet rag. Two people had just been brought here from a stabbing. One seemed okay, but the other was slashed through an artery. Fear filled me like blood – both in the car and here. In general, they got there miraculously. Baba Motya looked at Ivan Semenovich with respect. Despite his youth, even in her thoughts she called the doctor only by his first name and patronymic. Well, Grandma Motya hasn’t drunk away her brains yet. An apartment - yes, but brains - no. And after forty years in medicine, she will always be able to distinguish a real surgeon from a colorless diploma holder...”