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.

I check my chart. Room 14 is Mr. Avery, and he's stable tonight. No reason for the cat to pick him. I crouch down and try to shoo Marrow away from the door. He doesn't move. He just keeps staring at me, waiting to see what I'll do.

I call Diane, the senior nurse who trained me. She picks up on the first ring even though it's 3 a.m. "Which room?" she asks. When I say 14, there's a long silence. "Don't let the cat in," she says. "Whatever you do tonight, keep that door shut."

I keep the door shut like she said. But around 4 a.m. I hear Mr. Avery calling for help, weak and scared. The cat is still outside. If I open the door to help him, I break Diane's only rule. If I don't, I'm leaving a dying man alone.

I can't leave him to suffer. I open the door. Marrow shoots past my legs and leaps onto the bed. Mr. Avery goes calm and still, his pain melting away, and he passes in his sleep within the minute. The cat looks up at me, satisfied. I helped the man, and I helped the thing too. I still can't decide if I did right.