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.

I sit with Mr. Avery and hold his hand. I'll just stay until morning, I decide, so nothing happens. He talks about his late wife, his garden, his old dog. Near dawn he squeezes my hand and says, "Thank you for staying." Then his monitor goes flat. Marrow was right. But this time, at least, he didn't die alone.