Unjustly fired from the clinic, an orderly got into a stranger’s car, mistaking him for a taxi driver. And when she told her story, the man silently took out his phone and briefly snapped: “Everyone to the office, in an hour. No exceptions.”
Seven o’clock in the evening. Anna Petrova wearily ran her hand across her forehead, brushing away stray strands of dark hair from under her cap. Her legs were aching after her shift, her back sore from constant bending, but the work wasn’t over yet.
Treatment room number three, on the second floor of the elite private clinic “Midlife,” needed cleaning after seeing patients. Anna pushed the door with her shoulder, holding a bucket with cleaning supplies and a mop. The room greeted her with the familiar smell of antiseptic and the faint scent of expensive perfume: only wealthy clients were treated here.
Snow-white walls, modern equipment, soft waiting chairs in the corner. All of this contrasted so sharply with her own life that sometimes Anna caught herself thinking she was working in two different worlds. She placed the bucket on the floor, took out a rag, and began to wipe down the couch.
Her movements were practiced, automatic. In three years of working at “Midlife,” Anna had learned every corner of this building. She knew where the floorboard creaked, which door was hard to close, and in which office the doctors always left a bigger mess.
Her thoughts were far away. This morning, her neighbor, Aunt Valya, who was looking after Katya, had called. The girl was complaining about pain in her leg again.
The doctors said the surgery couldn’t be postponed for more than two months. In her head, Anna recounted her savings for the hundredth time. One hundred and twenty-eight thousand were on her card.
She was still short seventy-two thousand. If she saved on everything, literally everything, she could make it by the beginning of spring. “Just a little longer, my dear,” Anna mentally addressed her niece.
“Just a little more, and we’ll have all the money. You’ll be able to run and jump like all the other kids.” Katya was the daughter of her late sister, Sveta.
Two years ago, Sveta died of cancer, and the eight-year-old girl was left in Anna’s care. Katya’s father had run off even before she was born, and there were no other relatives. Anna took her niece in without a second thought.
Sveta was her only sister, three years older, the closest person to her after their mother. Anna wiped the instrument table, changed the bag in the trash can, and checked that everything was in its place. All that was left was to mop the floor.
She wrung out the mop and began to methodically work on the white tiles, moving from the far corner towards the exit. The office door suddenly flew open. Standing in the doorway was the head nurse, Irina Volkova—a tall woman with a cold face and perpetually pursed lips.
She was in her late forties but carefully concealed her age under a thick layer of makeup and regular visits to the cosmetologist.
— Haven’t you finished yet? — Irina asked sarcastically, glancing around the room. — It’s almost eight o’clock. The other orderlies left long ago.
Anna straightened up, leaning on the mop.
— Almost done, Irina Sergeevna.
— Another five minutes. “Five minutes,” Irina mimicked. — It’s always “another five minutes” with you. Slowpoke.
She walked into the room, her heels clacking loudly on the tiles. Anna silently stepped back against the wall to let her pass.
In three years of work, she had learned not to respond to the head nurse’s barbs. Irina had disliked her from the very first day, either because of Anna’s youth or simply because she needed someone to assert her authority over. Irina walked over to the ultrasound machine, which stood on a special stand by the wall.
It was the latest model, the clinic’s pride, purchased just a month ago. The head doctor, Kovalev, had personally warned the entire staff to handle the equipment with care.
— This spot isn’t wiped properly, — Irina ran her finger over the machine’s casing, although it was shining clean. — You always do a sloppy job.
Anna clenched her teeth. The bucket and mop were at her feet, her arms were tired, and Katya was waiting at home. She just wanted to finish and leave.
— I’ll wipe it again now, — she said quietly.
Irina snorted and leaned carelessly against the machine.
At that moment, something creaked. The stand under the machine wobbled—apparently, one of its legs was poorly secured or not standing evenly. Irina jerked, trying to regain her balance, and her elbow pushed the device.
It all happened in a split second. The massive machine tilted and slid off the stand. Anna only had time to cry out and step forward, instinctively reaching out her hands as if she could catch the expensive equipment.
It was useless. The crash was deafening. The machine fell onto the tiled floor, its protective glass shattering into pieces, the plastic casing cracking, and internal parts scattering across the floor with a clang.
Anna froze, staring at the wreckage. Her ears were ringing from the impact.
— What is going on here?
Standing in the doorway was the head doctor of the clinic, Oleg Viktorovich Kovalev, a man in his mid-fifties with graying temples and a heavy gaze. His face was red with anger. He strode into the room, his eyes darting from the broken machine to the frozen Anna with a mop in her hands, then to Irina, who had retreated to the window.
— What have you done? — Kovalev’s voice was icy, which was scarier than shouting. — Do you have any idea how much this device costs?
Anna opened her mouth, but couldn’t utter a word. Her throat was tight with fear and injustice. It wasn’t her. She hadn’t even touched the machine.
— Oleg Viktorovich… — Irina began to speak, and her voice had the perfect notes of indignation and regret. — I warned her to be careful. She was swinging her mop around and hit the stand.
Anna turned to her so sharply that her temples throbbed.
— That’s not true! I didn’t even go near it. It was you!
— What about me? — Irina drew herself up to her full height, looking down at Anna. — I came in to check the quality of the cleaning and saw you carelessly handling the mop. And when I pointed it out, you flinched and bumped the stand.
It was a lie. A bold, cynical lie. Anna had seen Irina push the machine herself, had seen the fear on her face in the first second after it fell. But now, standing before the head doctor was the unflappable head nurse, who had worked at “Midlife” for twelve years and had the management’s trust.
— Oleg Viktorovich, that’s not what happened, — Anna took a step forward, feeling her knees tremble. — I didn’t touch the machine. I was just mopping the floor.
— Quiet! — Kovalev barked.
He squatted down, examining the wreckage of the expensive equipment. He picked up a piece of cracked plastic, shaking his head.
— This is a disaster. Over a million. Do you even understand? A million.
That sum echoed in Anna’s head. For people like Kovalev, it was perhaps an inconvenience. For her, it was a figure from another reality, unattainable, unimaginable.
— I was prepared to overlook a lot, — Kovalev continued, straightening up. — Lateness, carelessness at work. But this crosses all lines.
— What lateness? — Anna couldn’t hold back. — I’ve never been late. I always…
— Are you talking back now? — Kovalev stepped towards her, and Anna involuntarily backed away. — Irina Sergeevna is a nurse with an impeccable reputation. She wouldn’t lie. And you? You’re just an orderly.
“Just an orderly.” Those words stung more than a slap. Anna had always been proud of her work, even if it wasn’t prestigious. She mopped floors, took out the trash, changed bed linens, did the things without which no hospital or clinic could function. She did it honestly, conscientiously. And now her labor was devalued with a single phrase.
Kovalev took out his phone, quickly dialed a number….
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