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.

"How long have you been able to see him?" I ask. Mr. Avery laughs, soft and tired. "Since my wife passed. He sat outside her door too, the night she went. He's not here for me, nurse. He's here for whoever else is in this room." The lights flicker. I realize I'm standing closer to him than I should be.

I step back fast, but the lights die for good. In the dark I hear Marrow padding into the room, slow and sure. When the lights flicker back, the old man is sleeping like a baby and the cold is gone. Mr. Avery was telling the truth. It wasn't here for him at all. It was making room.