Next Dr. Beck shows us the staff lounge, which is right next to the entrance, and he wanders off to give us a minute to put our food in the fridge.

The staff lounge is bare-bones. There’s one sofa that looks worse than the one Gabby and I rescued from the curb last year, and that is saying a lot. There’s a single computer in the corner of the room which looks like the kind of computer I used to see in pictures of my parents’ house before I was born. Next to the ancient computer is a window. If I had any thoughts in my head about trying to get some fresh air, those thoughts are immediately banished by the set of bars covering the window.

Cameron yanks open the refrigerator door so we can stash our dinners inside. The refrigerator looks like it hasn’t been cleaned out since sometime in the last century. There is a brown crusty film all over every surface, and to fit my dinner inside, I have to push away a carton of milk that feels like it’s become mostly solid. I don’t dare throw anything away though.

Hmm, could this be some sort of psychological experiment? Maybe somebody’s watching us with cameras to see if someone will clean out this disgusting refrigerator?

Cameron holds up his phone, jabbing at the screen. “There’s no service at all around here.”

In spite of the fact that the guy dumped me for a test, I try to help him out anyway. “Gabby said there’s reception right by the window.”

I follow her instructions and walk right up to the window. I press my phone against the cool surface, and sure enough, a single bar appears on the

screen. Then a second. Two bars of reception—woo hoo!

Before the bars can disappear on me, I punch in a message to Gabby:

Arrived on Ward D. You didn’t tell me Dr. Beck was so cute!

The message goes through, but a second later, the bars vanish. Just as well, because Dr. Beck is waiting for us.

Dr. Beck is flipping through a chart when we get back to the nurses’ station. He looks up and smiles when he sees us.

“So your job for tonight,” he says, “is to be available to help out in case of any emergencies on the unit. But other than that, you are here to learn.”

“That sounds great!” Cameron says with the enthusiasm of a child who was told he’s going to Disneyland.

“But here’s the bad news,” Dr. Beck says. “The computer system is undergoing maintenance tonight. So tonight we have to rely on paper charts and paper orders only.”

That’s okay by me. I have a login for the computer system, but I’ve never even tried it yet. If my recent luck is any indication, an extended conversation with IT will be required before I get it to work.

Dr. Beck gestures at a rack of thick blue binders lined up on a shelf above the nurses’ station. “Those are the paper charts. What I would recommend for the night is for you to read up on a couple of patients and interview them. Learn as much as you can about them and follow them overnight.”

So much for my plan to hide in the staff lounge all night long.

“I’ll teach you what I can tonight,” Dr. Beck adds. “This is a unique experience for both of you—a great way to learn about inpatient psychiatry hands-on. Are either of you interested in the field?”

“I am,” Cameron says.

Oh my God, that little liar.

“How about you, Amy?” Dr. Beck asks. “Not really,” I admit.

Cameron looks at me as if stunned that I wouldn’t at least pretend to be interested in specializing in psychiatry. But really, I was kind. If I said what I was really thinking, it would’ve been something like, I would rather hang myself by my eyelids.

Anyway, Dr. Beck laughs. “Your honesty is refreshing,” he says. “I get sort of sick of every medical student pretending to be interested in

psychiatry.”

It makes me feel just a little bit better when the tips of Cameron’s ears turn bright red.

Dr. Beck leads us back into the hallway. It’s quiet on the unit, except for a strange rhythmic clicking noise. Click click click. Like a small person tap dancing in one of the rooms. I do my best to ignore it.

“All the patients in Ward D have their own rooms,” he explains. “The rooms don’t lock, but we do have two seclusion rooms that lock from the outside using a keypad. But other than that, the patients can wander the unit if they want. There’s a patient lounge with couches and a television and even a piano.”

“I play the piano,” Cameron volunteers. “I actually was offered a chance to study piano in Paris during college.”

Dr. Beck ignores his comment. “I encourage you to spend time with the patient you’re following, and really dive deep. Most of them will be happy to talk to you, and you can learn a lot. This is the kind of opportunity you won’t have later in your training when you’re much busier.”

Click click click. What is that tapping noise? “That sounds amazing,” Cameron says.

Ugh, he’s being such a horrible suck-up. I can’t believe I used to go out with him. I can’t believe I used to think he was handsome. Or that he was a good kisser. But some of my irritation with him is dampened by the annoying noise that doesn’t seem to show any sign of stopping.

Click click click. Like someone is trying to send us a morse code signal. “What’s that noise?” I speak up.

“Oh!” Dr. Beck laughs. “That’s Mary. She’s always knitting.”

He points to the room just in front of us. Room 912. I peek inside, and sure enough, there’s a white-haired woman in a long cable knit dress, sitting on a chair, a pair of knitting needles in her gnarled hands. She looks like she’s working on a scarf, but the scarf is far too long. Like, ridiculously long. It cascades down her legs, and then across the length of the room three times. It looks like it could be five or six scarves by now.

“What’s she in here for?” Cameron asks.

It was a little tactless the way he asked, but Mary does look harmless enough.

“You’ll see very soon.” Dr. Beck winks at us. “She sundowns pretty badly.”

“Sundowns?” I ask.

“It happens to a lot of old people with dementia,” he explains. “The sun goes down and they get more and more confused and agitated. Keep an eye on her and you’ll see.”

“She’s here because of dementia?”

“Oh no.” He shakes his head vigorously. “She’s here for a very good reason, believe me.”

I sneak a look back into Mary’s room. She notices us at the door, and her wrinkled face breaks out into a huge smile that almost makes her lips disappear into her mouth. She waves at us.

I wave back.

“You let her have knitting needles?” I ask in surprise. It was one of the items on the list of things we should never, ever, ever bring onto the psychiatric unit.

Dr. Beck nods. “They’re plastic children’s safety needles—completely harmless. She’s not a high-risk patient, and knitting keeps her happy. So we let her do it—otherwise, she gets too restless.”

I imagine a knitting needle sailing through my eyeball at some point during the night. “Oh.”

“So as I was saying earlier,” Dr. Beck goes on, “we have two seclusion rooms that do lock, but only one of them is currently occupied. Let me show you.”

He leads us around the circle to a pair of rooms with keypads next to the doors. One of the doors is open, but the other is closed. I’m disturbed by how close these rooms are to the staff lounge, which is where I’ll probably be spending a lot of time tonight. I suppose that’s intentional though.

“Seclusion One is occupied right now,” he says. “And I would not recommend visiting with the patient in that room at any point during the night.”

“Why not?” Cameron asks.

Dr. Beck hesitates for a moment as his brows knit together. “Mr. Sawyer is… dangerous.”

My heart speeds up in my chest. “Dangerous?”

“Not to you though,” he says quickly. “As you can see, the door is locked. And within the room, he is also restrained. So he’s completely secured. We’re planning on transferring him to a more secure facility in the morning.”

Oh my God.

“I promise, you’re perfectly safe.” Dr. Beck flashes a reassuring smile when he sees the look on my face. “There is no chance of Mr. Sawyer getting out of that room.” He pauses. “Unless, of course, you let him out.”

Dr. Beck is quiet for a moment. It’s so quiet that I can hear a sound coming from inside Seclusion One. It’s a terrible sound—barely even human. Something between a groan and a growl.

My God, who is in that room? Or should I say, what? “Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll stay far away.”

“Good,” Dr. Beck says.

We turn around and walk back the way we came. On the way, we pass room 905 once again. And once again, the door is cracked open. And those blue eyes flecked with yellow are staring out at me.

Watching me.