The night shift is quiet except for the machines breathing down the hall. The gray cat, Marrow, walks ahead of me like he owns the place. By March I figured out the rule nobody says out loud: wherever Marrow curls up to sleep, that bed is empty by dawn. Tonight he stops outside Room 14. Then he turns and looks straight at me with flat yellow eyes.

Instead of guessing, I go into Room 14 myself. Mr. Avery is awake, propped up on his pillows. "You see him too, don't you," he says quietly. "The cat outside my door." My stomach drops. I never said a word about Marrow.

"Then tell me how to make him leave," I say. Mr. Avery shakes his head slowly. "You can't make him leave. You can only point him somewhere else." He looks at me very carefully when he says it, and I go cold all over.

I back away from him, shaking my head. "I'm not pointing him at anyone." Mr. Avery's tired face goes hard. "Then he picks for himself," he says. "And you're the one standing closest to the door." Out in the hall, Marrow starts walking toward me.