The pager ringing dozens of times a day, stretchers sliding across the floor, the smell of disinfectant mixed with a faint scent of blood. Someone returned alive, and someone ultimately did not. Life and death were always a paper-thin margin apart, and we ran every day to hold onto that thin boundary. Even the time to suffer from the regret of failure or the guilt of loss was a luxury and a leisure we couldn't afford. Because this is a job where one must look up toward the 'next' faster than anyone else.

While being berated by professors and spending all night fixing a junior's mistake, I sometimes felt frustrated by the dream of going home, which was turning into a desperate illusion. Even then, I had to pick myself up and continue working, thinking that such feelings were not rational.

...Whew.

Rubbing my dry eyes, I opened the emergency exit door. It was the familiar sight of the grey staircase. I spread out my yellow sleeping bag on the 8th-floor stairs where no one comes, and wiggled my way inside. ...I have to sleep. I'm desperate for some rest, any rest.