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 push the door open and step inside. Mr. Avery is sitting up, breathing fine, watching the TV with the sound off. "You okay?" I ask. He smiles. "Better than okay. But that cat's been sitting outside my room for an hour. He never does that for nothing, does he?" I don't know what to say.

"He's just a cat," I say, more to myself than to him. Mr. Avery points past my shoulder. "Then who's that behind you?" I turn. There's a thin gray figure standing in the corner of the room, and it has the same flat yellow eyes as the cat in the hall.

I back up against the bed. The gray figure tilts its head, just like the cat does. "It only takes one of us tonight," it says, in a thin, dry voice. "Him, or you." Mr. Avery looks at me with sad, knowing eyes. "I'm old," he says. "You're not. Go. Let it take me." So I do. I walk out, and I don't look back.