I have no appetite at all.

I return to the staff lounge after talking to Jade, and my cheese sandwich is waiting for me. But it’s utterly unappetizing. I know

American cheese never expires, and it will probably be safe to eat long after I have graduated from medical school, gone through residency, and retired and moved to Florida, but I still don’t want it. I don’t even want to look at it. I stuff it back into the paper bag and toss it in the trash.

I dig out my phone and try once again to get some service on it. For a split second, I have a bar. But then it vanishes.

I suppose I could call Gabby from one of the landlines. Of course, it’s getting very late. And I’m not sure if I’ve ever actually called her. In our entire two years of being roommates and best friends, I’m not sure we’ve ever spoken on the phone. We’ve only exchanged text messages. Besides, if she sees a call coming from the hospital, she’ll almost certainly send it to voicemail.

I almost wish Cameron were here. I don’t know where he went. His dinner is missing from the refrigerator, so he obviously came back here to eat it after we interviewed Spider-Dan, but I haven’t seen him since. He’s probably interviewing another patient. I know he wants to impress Dr. Beck, because he wants to impress everyone.

After I toss my dinner in the trash, I decide to make good on my statement to Ramona about seeing a second patient. After all, I’ve got plenty of time. So I head back to the nurses’ station to find another chart.

I notice this time the chart labeled SAWYER has disappeared. It’s a shame, because I was very curious to see exactly what sent him here. And it would be comforting to look through it and reassure myself that he’s not some sort of murderer. Of course, I can’t guarantee anything in the chart would be comforting. So maybe it’s better that I’m not looking.

Jade’s chart is still up on the rack. She thinks I would look at it without her permission, but I’m going to show her that I’m better than that. I’m not looking at that chart. Whatever sent Jade to the psych ward, that’s her business. Instead, I reach for the chart for room 912.

Mary Cummings.

After all the excitement tonight, it will be a nice change of pace to interview a sweet old woman sitting in a chair knitting a scarf. There isn’t much scary about Mary.

I flip through Mary’s chart to find out exactly what brought her to Ward

D. I learn that Mary is seventy-eight years old, and one day while she was out in her backyard, she heard the sound of a child in the house next door swinging back and forth on the swing set. She found the sound of this so grating, she marched over to the house, threw the child off the swing, and refused to let anyone near the swing set again. Until Mary herself had to be forcibly removed by the police.

In Mary’s defense, swings can be really annoying. Like, when they squeak a lot. I can’t entirely blame her.

I have to go past Seclusion One in order to get to Mary’s room. Thankfully, no pounding noises are coming from within the room. The man inside the room has gone quiet, at least for now. I stand there a moment, looking at the metal door, which dents outward in the center, just like it would if somebody were throwing himself against it. The keypad next to the door glows green.

“Let… out…”

The sound is like a hiss from within the room. I can barely make out the words. It sounds like somebody talking with a mouthful of marbles in his mouth.

“Let… me… out…”

It’s obvious what Damon Sawyer wants. I know the code for the door, and if I wanted, I could type it in.

I could let him free.

“Let… me… out…” A long pause. “Please…”

I shake my head and step back from the door. Not a chance. I might not know what Sawyer did to land him in that room, but I know what he’ll do if he ever gets out.

I hurry down the hallway to room 912—Mary Cummings’s room. As I get closer, I hear that familiar noise once again. Click click click. She is still hard at work on her scarf, even though it’s getting quite late. She smiles up at me, and I notice how yellow her teeth are, and that three of them are rotting in the front.

I look down at the knitting needles she’s working with. I don’t know exactly what children’s safety needles look like, but these look like legit knitting needles, made from steel. They could easily be used to take out someone’s eye.

“Well, hello, dear.” She blinks her watery brown eyes. They look like they have a film covering them. “Nicole, isn’t it?”

I recall the name Nicole in one of the charts on the rack. Nicole must be a patient here that Mary is familiar with. I’m not thrilled about the fact that she has mistaken me for one of the patients.

“I’m sorry Dr. Beck wouldn’t let you leave yesterday, Nicole,” Mary says. “That must have been so upsetting.”

“No,” I correct her. “My name is Amy. I’m a medical student.”

“Oh!” Mary puts down her knitting needles and claps her hands together. “Oh, how absolutely lovely! A doctor—your parents must be so proud!”

I settle down on the bed next to her, crossing my legs. “Actually, yes.”

She tilts her head to the side and sighs. “How nice for you. Do you have a beau?”

I get asked that question a lot, but never before exactly in that way. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, that’s a shame!” She clucks her tongue. “A pretty girl like you?

You should have a million beaus.” “Um, thanks.”

“I know!” Her eyes light up and she leans forward so that I can see a little bit of what could be toothpaste in the corner of her lips. “You should go out with that nice Dr. Beck. He is such a nice man. And so handsome. And distinguished!”

“Uh,” I say. After Will Schoenfeld (and Spider-Dan), Richard Beck is the next most inappropriate person for me to be hooking up with on this

unit. Hooking up with attendings is definitely frowned upon, even if they have sexy dimples.

“Of course,” she adds, “you can’t tell him that you’re interested. That would look desperate. But you could flirt with him. Maybe put on a little makeup. A nice dress that shows off your bosom. And if you wear the right pair of shoes—”

“Mrs. Cummings,” I interrupt her. “I actually wanted to ask some questions about you.”

She clutches her chest. “About me? Oh, I am so boring. My life is over.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I’m almost eighty, for one thing!”

“But life expectancy is growing.” Mary needs a pep talk and I’m good at that. “They say eighty is the new seventy! You could easily live to be a hundred.”

“Between you and me…” Mary drops her voice. “I’m not even sure if I’m going to make it through the night.”

The way she says it sends a chill down my spine. “Why do you say that? “

“Oh, I don’t know.” She smiles at me. “Just a feeling I have. That my time might be up.”

I don’t know exactly what she’s talking about, if this is crazy talk, or if she has some sort of premonition. I clear my throat. “Don’t you want to live for your family?”

“My husband died ten years ago.” She goes back to her knitting, the needles tapping together once again. Click click click. “Harvey and I never had any children. The only family I’ve got left is my sister, and she’s an old battle ax.”

“What did Harvey die from?” I ask.

“Why?” She narrows her eyes. “Do you think that I killed him?”

At first, I think she must be joking, but there’s an edge to her voice that makes me think she’s not. “Of course not,” I say.

“Because I didn’t.” She frowns. “People fall down the stairs, you know.

All the time!” “I’m sure…”

“And I loved him.” She tugs some of the yarn from the ball on her lap. “Even though he used to see other women, I still loved him. I would never

have killed him.”

Okay, now I’m starting to think that Mary definitely killed her husband. “Anyway,” Mary says, “now that Harvey is gone, there isn’t much to

do. I just work on my garden mostly. That’s the only thing I enjoy.” “And knitting,” I add.

She laughs. “No, I don’t care for knitting.”

The scarf trailing from the needles in her hands travels the length of the room. She has done nothing but knit since I set foot on this unit. “I would have thought you liked to knit. I mean, you’re doing an awful lot of it.”

She laughs again. “I’m not knitting because I enjoy it. I’m knitting for

protection.”

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

She looks down at the two knitting needles in her hands. “You can’t exactly bring a weapon onto a psych unit. But in case I need protection, I believe these will do nicely, don’t you?”

I look down at the shiny steel knitting needles, one in each of her gnarled hands. She’s right. They could serve as weapons if need be.

I wonder if I should warn Dr. Beck that she is thinking that way.

Mary reaches into the handbag next to her chair. She digs around for a moment and pulls out another knitting needle. She holds it out to me.

“Here,” she says. “You’re going to need this.” My mouth falls open. “I really don’t think—”

“Take it, Amy.” Her hand holding the needle trembles slightly. “You’re going to want it when Damon Sawyer comes at you.”

Damon Sawyer. Yet another patient obsessed with him, certain he’s going to try to harm us tonight. I wish I could just ignore them. I probably should. But it’s hard when I keep hearing the same thing again and again.

“Damon Sawyer is locked up in seclusion,” I tell her. “Yes.” Mary’s watery eyes bore into me. “For now.” “Mary, I…”

“Take the knitting needle. Please, Amy. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

I start to shake my head, but instead, I grab the knitting needle out of Mary’s hand. She watches me as I bury the needle deep into the large side pocket of my scrub pants.

After all, it can’t hurt to have a little protection.