The God Next Door
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After listening to the old man speak, Miron didn't ask him why he and his son had quarreled, understanding that he wasn't yet ready to share such profound emotions with his new acquaintance. Changing the subject, Uncle Kolya smoked another cigarette, and Miron finished his coffee. Afterwards, they sat in silence for a while.
“It was nice to meet you, Uncle Kolya,” said Miron, looking at the old man.
"Likewise, Myron. You go ahead, I'll sit for a bit longer," the old man replied, glancing at his neighbor.
“You’re an interesting person, Uncle Kolya,” the man said finally, walking back into the apartment.
Back inside, he washed out his coffee cup. Then he went to take a shower.
Twenty minutes later, invigorated by his morning shower, he was full of energy. Entering the room, his eyes found his phone. He glanced at the time and began to get ready. It was seven forty. Locking the door, he sped up a little, clearly in a hurry.
Fifteen minutes later, Miron arrived at the city emergency hospital. Two men in white coats stood at the door. They were discussing something intensely—as they approached, it became clear they were discussing the night shift. One of them was short and stocky, with a bald spot already visible among his graying hair. He looked to be about fifty. His slightly hooked nose was complemented by a bushy gray mustache curling at the edges. This was Boris Semyonovich Borkov, head of the emergency department. The second man was tall, with a well-built physique. He had fair hair, was clean-shaven, and a short cropped scalp, and was no older than forty. He was Dmitry Pavlovich Demin, head of the surgical department.
“Good morning,” Myron greeted, looking towards the doctors.
“Good,” they replied, continuing to discuss the night shift without paying much attention to him.
Stepping inside, he glanced around the foyer before heading toward the stairs. He hadn't even climbed a few steps when someone called out to him.
"Sir, where are you going?" a stern female voice called from the side. It was the head nurse. A girl of about thirty-seven looked at Miron with her blue eyes and large black eyelashes. She was short. Her light hair, slightly copper-tinted, was pinned back with a barrette. Her nose was slightly pointed, matched by full lips. They say of girls like her that she could stop a galloping horse and enter a burning hut. An excellent example of a truly Russian girl, any artist would say, if they met her.
“I’m going to see the head doctor,” Miron answered, turning to the girl.
"Put on your shoe covers and a gown. And anyway, we don't wear outerwear," the nurse continued in the same stern tone.
At that moment, her phone rang. She picked it up and waved him on his way.
"Yes, I'm listening. Serious? I'm coming! I'm already running!" she said into the phone, running toward the emergency room.
"Sir, bring your robe and shoe covers. Don't forget your mask," she called after Miron as she ran away.
Miron approached the reception desk. A large, short woman sat in the window. A blonde woman of about fifty was furiously arguing with someone on the phone.
"Hello. Where can I find a robe and shoe covers?" Miron asked, trying to interject during a lull in her heated phone conversation.
"Who are you, sir?" she asked, looking condescendingly at the uninvited guest.
“I’m a doctor...” he began to explain, never finishing his explanation.
Anyone who ever knew Valentina will tell you with one voice: even Satan couldn't talk her down. And this time, after interrupting Miron, she was already giving him her answer.
"If you're a doctor, your lab coat's in the doctor's office. They'll hire young people," the woman replied rudely, frowning, and returning to her phone conversation.
Miron briefly considered explaining to her that he'd just come to apply for a job. But looking at Valentina, he realized that was pointless at the moment. Walking a short distance down the hall, he spotted the staff room. Approaching the door, he knocked. When silence answered, he decided to go inside. As expected, no one was there. Throwing on the nearest robe hanging by the door, he put on shoe covers and a mask. Then he walked out of the staff room. Young nurses ran toward him. Upon seeing Miron, they simultaneously blurted out, as if they'd been rehearsing all day:
"Two seriously ill. They need help urgently," he said, clapping Miron on the shoulder, as if urging him to follow.
Miron was momentarily at a loss. But he decided to follow the nurses. A minute later, they were at the operating room. Entering, he saw a pregnant woman and a young man lying on two separate tables. They were covered in blood.
"What do you know?" asked Myron.
"A twenty-three-year-old woman, eight months pregnant. Broken ribs, punctured right lung. A twenty-five-year-old man with a hematoma on the temple and a fractured left leg. The accident happened twenty minutes ago," the nurse replied, as if reading quickly.
"Doctor, who are we going to operate on first?" the second nurse asked, her voice filled with excitement.
"Personally, I don't want to explain to their child that the doctor decided to save just one of them. Both of them. Where's the anesthesiologist?" Myron answered calmly, disinfecting his hands.
Another nurse just entered the room. Myron nodded toward her, indicating that they should begin the operation.
It's impossible to describe what happened in the operating room. Miron, like a symphony orchestra conductor, controlled the scalpel, nurses, and patients. Having removed air and blood from the girl's lungs, he stopped the bleeding in the boy's artery, preventing irreversible consequences for their health and the health of the baby. When the crisis passed and Miron told the nurse to begin stitching, a commotion erupted at the door of the operating room. Taking off his gloves and walking out the door, he immediately encountered Boris Semenovich and Dmitry Pavlovich. They were the same two doctors standing on the hospital steps. A few seconds later, the head nurse appeared in the hallway. The same Nadezhda Vasilyevna Nemtsova who had recently scolded him for his appearance.
"What's going on here?" Boris Semyonovich asked rudely.
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?" he added in an even rougher tone, looking at Myron.
“I’m calling the police,” said the head nurse, taking her phone out of her pocket.
"Boris Semyonovich, Nadezhda Vasilyevna, wait a minute. If it weren't for the doctor, we would have had three fatalities," said the nurse, who had followed Miron out and witnessed the scene, rushing to the doctor's defense.
"What do you mean?" Dmitry Pavlovich asked, taken aback.
“Thanks to the doctor, they’re alive,” the girl answered, pointing towards the operating room.
"But who are you anyway?" Nadezhda Vasilyevna asked, her expression as surprised as if she'd just seen Hippocrates in person.
"Maybe we should go to the staff room? I'll tell you everything there," Myron answered confidently and calmly.
Returning to the same doctor's office where he had taken his robe, but now accompanied by two doctors and nurses, Miron decided to introduce himself first.
— Miron Mikhailovich Maikov. General surgeon.
Then he began his story from the first steps of the hospital. He vividly described his journey to the head doctor, his search for a gown, and his fleeting encounter with the head nurse. He also described his decision to take responsibility, as there was no time to think.
“After which, almost before we even started storming the operating room, all of you showed up,” Miron finished.
At that moment, a woman in a white coat entered the staff room. Her name tag indicated her title as chief physician. Galina Vladimirovna Gunko, fifty-one years old, was slightly above average height. She had fair hair and a short bob befitting her age. Her distinctive feature was heterochromia oculosa. One eye was brown, the other half green, half brown.
Walking down the hallway, she overheard Miron's monologue from behind the loosely closed door of the doctor's office. She then decided to listen to him outside the office door to hear the real, unvarnished truth.
“Hello,” she greeted.
"Galina Vladimirovna! Hello," Nadezhda Vasilyevna greeted with a frightened look.
"Good morning," the other doctors and nurses greeted one after the other. They looked as if they were about to be executed.
“Hello,” Myron greeted in a confident voice, looking at the woman who entered the office.
"Excuse me, what's your name?" the head doctor asked Miron.
“Myron,” he answered.
"And your patronymic?" Galina Vladimirovna asked again.
“Miron Mikhailovich,” he introduced himself again.
"Let's go to my office, Miron Mikhailovich. I'll deal with the rest later. Now, let's get to work," she said to the man, then glanced at everyone else present.
After an hour of conversation with the head doctor, Myron was leaving the hospital. Today he'd been promoted to surgeon. And who wouldn't have been, after such a masterful performance in the operating room? He was heading to the café, where he was already a little late. A new acquaintance was waiting for him.
Bank office. Legal office.
“Vera, it’s time,” Lena reminded the girl, pointing her finger at the dial of her watch.
“Oh, it’s already ten to eleven,” Vera said, jumping up from her chair.
Hurriedly getting ready, she scooped her keys and phone into her purse. Then, going to the mirror, she fixed her hair and touched up her lips. Today, she chose a less vibrant lipstick color. This way, she wanted to emphasize her self-confidence. She wanted her look to say, "I know my worth." Today, she had to be perfect.
“Girls, wish me luck,” she rattled off, running out of the office.
“Good luck,” the friends’ voices came in unison from the office.
The bank building wasn't far from the café where she was supposed to meet Miron. About a ten-minute walk. If she walked briskly, she'd be just in time. And that's what Vera did. She disliked unpunctual people. And she certainly couldn't afford to be unpunctual. Almost all the way there, she took her phone out of her purse to check the time. All she had to do was cross the street at the crosswalk. And there she was, just in time. But fate had other plans. A car came around the corner, running a red light, as if it had appeared out of thin air. Due to the circumstances, the driver couldn't possibly see Vera, who was crossing the street at that moment at the crosswalk. Vera, in turn, standing in the middle of the roadway, saw Miron walking on the other side. Pausing briefly to wave, she heard the sharp screech of brakes. Turning around, she saw a black SUV struggling to stop. But it was too late. The driver tried to brake, but realizing the stopping distance was longer, he swerved. But even that didn't help. Impact. Vera lay unconscious on the asphalt.
III
There was a commotion around the scene. Vera lay unconscious on the road. Her head had been bruised from the impact with the asphalt. Miron was the first to run to her. Then, other passersby began to approach. He checked her pulse and then confirmed that she was breathing.
"An ambulance. Call an ambulance!" someone's voice came from the side.
"They won't make it. She needs to be taken immediately," Miron said calmly, not taking his eyes off Vera.
At that moment, the driver ran out of the car. He fell to his knees, clutching his head. His forehead was covered in blood.
"I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to..." he wailed in panic, rocking back and forth.
Miron looked at him, then glanced at the SUV. He carefully lifted Vera from the asphalt and carried her to the car.
“Open the door,” he said in a commanding tone, looking at the unfortunate driver.
"Yes, yes. Of course," he answered fearfully, running to open the door.
“Get in,” Myron said in a serious voice, pointing to the back seat.
The driver sat down in the back row without question.
"Do you have any bandages?" Myron asked, looking at him.
"There was a first aid kit in the trunk. I'll look for it now," the driver replied, his voice trembling as he began frantically searching for it, leaning over the back of the rear seat into the trunk.
Seeing that he wouldn't get any bandages, Myron glanced around the car. A brand-new white shirt, still wrapped, lay on the front seat.
"Sit down already!" Myron said again in a commanding voice.
The man immediately stopped rummaging through the trunk and got in. Myron laid the girl on the back seat, her head on the driver's lap. Then he quickly jumped into the driver's seat and began opening a new shirt from the package lying nearby, then handed it to the driver.
“Press the wound,” Myron said, turning the ignition key.
The driver silently complied with Myron's instructions. The engine's roar echoed throughout the street. Closing the car doors, Myron honked the horn to signal everyone to move out of the way. Then he abruptly turned the jeep around. He picked up speed and drove toward the hospital.
Ten minutes later, an old SUV pulled up in front of the emergency room. Myron quickly ran out. Opening the back door, he carefully lifted the girl out and carried her into the emergency room. To his right, slightly ahead, walked the man responsible for the accident. The hapless driver opened every door they came across. Nurses were already running toward them. These were the same women who had assisted Myron that morning.
"We need a gurney. And get the operating room ready!" Myron ordered, carefully transferring the girl onto the gurney that instantly appeared before him.
“Yes, of course,” answered one of the nurses, turning away.
The second one took the gurney with the girl lying on it and, practically running, pushing it forward, headed towards the operating room.
Miron ran into the pre-operative block, where Dmitry Pavlovich was already, and a nurse helped him quickly change clothes, put on gloves and a mask.
"You again?" he blurted out, stunned by what he saw, upon seeing Myron.
"Traumatic brain injury. A twenty-five-year-old girl. Hit by a car. Ten minutes had passed since the accident. She never regained consciousness," Myron replied, his voice calm and clear, but faster than usual.
After these words, Dmitry Pavlovich, having completed all the procedures necessary to enter the sterile operating room, pushed open the door. Miron wanted to follow him, but Dmitry Pavlovich stopped him.
"Where are you going? Take a rest," he said, looking at Myron.
"I've performed operations like this before. I can handle it," Dmitry Pavlovich assured him, placing his hand on his shoulder before disappearing through the operating room door.
"Okay. If you need my help, I'll be waiting here," Myron replied to the departing surgeon, nodding toward the corridor.
A man sat in an iron chair, the kind usually found along the walls of hospital rooms. He had his head almost down to his knees, and to keep from falling forward, he held it with both hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Another nurse approached him. Looking at him, she gently touched his shoulder.
"You're the second victim in the accident, aren't you? Where did you run off to? I had to look for you. Come on, we need to examine your head," she said, leading him into the procedure room.
Miron didn't leave the operating room for a minute, expecting to be nearby if help was needed. Twenty minutes later, a driver approached him, his head bandaged, apparently having hit the windshield while braking.
"How is she? Do you know anything?" he asked fearfully, looking at Myron.
"The operation is still ongoing. No one has come out," he replied, looking up at the man.
They sat in silence for about two hours. Nurses and patients passed by. But they had no time for them. The hapless driver had already lost his freedom several times in his thoughts. And then, his life in prison. He reproached himself for his carelessness behind the wheel. He was deeply worried about the girl's health, but thoughts of his own fate and the fate of his family also haunted his mind. Miron appeared calm. However, if you looked closely, you could see that he was equally worried about Vera's life and health.
The silence was broken by Dmitry Pavlovich emerging from the operating room.
“Miron, if I’m not mistaken,” he addressed the man, approaching him.
"Yes. How is she? Is she alright?" he asked, rising from his chair as soon as he saw Dmitry Pavlovich.
"She's fine. You brought her here just in time. The surgery was a success. She'll be in intensive care today for observation. Then we'll transfer her to a regular ward," Dmitry Pavlovich replied, looking at Miron.
"Do you mind if I address you informally?" he asked, hoping for an affirmative answer.
"Everything's fine. The main thing is that her health is not in any danger," Myron replied with a tired smile.
“Thank you,” added Miron, extending his hand to Dmitry Pavlovich.
"Thank you very much. You saved four people in one morning. I've never seen anything like that before. You're a real superhero," Dmitry Pavlovich replied with respect in his voice.
The man, his head bandaged, stood nearby the entire time and heard the doctors' words. And when it became clear the girl was alive and would be fine, he raised his hands above his head and began wailing:
“Thank God, thank God...” the driver repeated, as if he were in some kind of trance.
Police officers appeared in the hallway. As per protocol, the nurse on duty had summoned them. After looking at the men, they approached.
"Who's at fault for the accident?" the lieutenant asked in a serious voice.
“Me,” the driver answered with regret in his voice.
“Come with me,” said the lieutenant, pointing towards the exit.
"Did you bring the victim?" he added, looking at Miron.
“Yes, I am,” Myron answered calmly, looking at the lieutenant.
“I’ll need to ask you a few questions as well,” said the lieutenant, taking the driver’s arm.
“Of course,” Myron answered, watching as the driver was taken away.
“Thank you again,” Miron repeated, extending his hand to Dmitry Pavlovich in farewell.
"Doctor, your testimony will also be needed. You will be contacted," the lieutenant added as he left.
“As you say,” he replied, looking at the men leaving.
Forty minutes later, they testified about what happened. The man at fault for the accident fully admitted his guilt, without the slightest attempt to conceal details or soften the investigator's feelings. He told everything as it happened. He explained how he failed to notice the red light and how he was speeding. He also explained where he was rushing to. It turned out his wife was giving birth at the hospital on the other side of town. That's why he had exceeded the speed limit. Miron recounted everything he saw and how he had to act under the circumstances. After several hours of questioning, everyone was released.
“Thank you for everything,” the man said, grabbing Myron’s hand with both hands, trying to shake it in that way.
"Go to your wife. Everything will be fine," Myron replied, extending his hand.
"Do you really think so? Will everything be okay?" the man asked, letting go of Miron's hand, hope in his voice.
"I really didn't mean to. The devil made me overstep. Until today, I've never done so," the man added, trying to justify what had happened to Miron.
“I’m very sorry,” he continued with emotion.
"Go see your wife. She really needs your support right now," Miron interrupted his monologue.
"Thank you, thank you," the man added hastily but gratefully. Then he ran toward the road to hail a taxi.
After the incident, Miron spent several hours walking around the city, reflecting on and analyzing the reactions, behavior, and relationships of the people he'd encountered that day. Lost in thought, he approached the building where his apartment was located. Upon reaching his floor, he encountered a neighbor with her child, whom he'd helped carry her bike down the street the previous day.
“Hello,” Miron greeted, coming closer to the girl.
“Good evening,” the girl greeted back, a little embarrassed.
"Hello," Myron said, leaning toward the child. He made it clear that he considered him an equal, that he was an adult just like him, and that it didn't matter that he was still a boy.
In response, the boy smiled and clapped the outstretched hand. Then they went to their separate apartments. Closing the door, Myron took off his shoes and coat. Just as he was about to enter the room, the doorbell rang. Opening the door, he saw the same girl from next door. Smiling awkwardly, she extended her hand to him.
"Since we're neighbors, maybe we should finally get to know each other. My name is Lara," she introduced herself, extending her hand to Miron.
"Sorry, it's high time I introduced myself. Myron," he said, shaking the girl's hand.
"Would you like to have dinner with me?" the girl asked, blushing slightly.
"Don't get me wrong, this isn't a date. I just want to thank you for your help," she added, looking even more embarrassed by her own words.
"Dinner. That would be great," Myron replied, smiling at the girl.
"Then I invite you to our place. "To our place," meaning to Max and me, the girl continued to justify herself.
“We’ll be expecting you at our place in twenty minutes,” she added, after which she ran back into her apartment.
“I’ll be there on time,” Miron replied after Lara, who was running away.
Having received an invitation to dinner, he decided it wouldn't be right to go empty-handed. So he went to the nearest store. There he bought a cake and a toy for Max. Twenty minutes later, he stood at Lara's door. He had just rang the doorbell when the door opened. Lara seemed to be standing next to him, waiting for him to arrive. She was still wearing her apron and holding a towel. It was clear she had only just finished setting the table.
“Come in,” she invited, trying to brush a lock of hair from her face.
“This is for you,” said Miron, handing the cake to the girl.
"Thank you. You shouldn't have spent so much money. I feel so bad," Lara replied, blushing again.
“And this is for you,” he handed the boy a model of a supercar , he added to his son, who appeared from behind the girl’s back.
“Thank you,” the baby replied, not taking his eyes off the gift.
“You go into the kitchen, and I’ll change and come over,” the girl said, pointing towards the kitchen.
Miron walked into the kitchen, where a freshly set table awaited him. It was completely covered with food.
“This is a very cozy apartment,” he thought.
The apartment was truly cozy. Nothing fancy, but everything was clean and tidy. The well-chosen furniture, combined with the warm color scheme of the walls and a few photographs interspersed with a few paintings, created that cozy atmosphere.
Five minutes later, Lara entered the kitchen. Admittedly, she looked good. A touch of eyeshadow accentuated her deep blue eyes. Soft pink lipstick and neatly combed hair perfectly accentuated her pretty face. She was wearing a red dress with white polka dots and a small white collar. She was holding Max in her arms.
“You look wonderful,” said Myron, looking at the apartment’s owner who had just entered.
“Thank you,” Lara said, smiling in response.
The girl sat the child down on a chair and pulled him closer to the table, then sat down next to him. Afterward, Miron took the empty seat. They chatted all evening on a variety of topics. Miron explained that he'd recently moved to the city and was getting ready to settle in. He also mentioned that he'd started working as a surgeon today and that tomorrow would be his first day. He didn't mention the heroic details of his employment, as he was modest. He spent most of the evening listening attentively to Lara, who recounted her life story in detail. She explained that she'd moved into this apartment just a month ago. She explained that Max was all she had. She explained the death of her parents and that she was an orphan. She told him about her husband's accident. About how his parents refused to see her with Max after his death. She also told him that she'd taken an academic leave of absence, having failed to graduate from the Institute of Culture, and was now working as a cosmetologist to somehow keep afloat. The child fell asleep an hour later. Tired from the adults' conversation, he fell asleep in his mother's arms. Lara carried the baby into the room, and they talked until late into the night. At the end of the evening, Myron thanked Lara for the delicious dinner and such a heartfelt conversation. Afterward, she walked him to the door. There, Myron thanked Lara again and returned to his room.