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.

"Point him at me, then," Mr. Avery says. "I'm ready. I've been ready for months. Just open the door and let him in." I stand at the door with my hand on the knob. Letting the cat in feels like agreeing to something I can't take back.

I open the door. Marrow walks in slow and sure, hops onto the bed, and curls against Mr. Avery's chest. The old man lets out a long breath and smiles. By the time I check his pulse, he's gone, peaceful and warm. Marrow purrs once, then trots out to find the next door. I let him pass.