The wool is thinning. You know this because you can feel the cold air touching your skin through the fibers. It is a grey cardigan, heavy and old, the kind of thing that holds the shape of the body that wore it. You bought it at a estate sale three years ago. It was the only thing you kept from the house of the woman who died in the hospital bed next to yours. She had been alone. You had not. But then, you had.

You sit in the conference room. The glass is clean. The light is flat. It is morning. You are wearing the cardigan. It feels like a shield. It feels like a wound.

“Margaret.”

The voice is sharp. It is Daniel. He is sitting across from you. He is looking at your hands. They are resting on the table. They are trembling.

“Margaret, we need to talk about the incident report.”

You do not look at him. You look at the seam of the cardigan. The thread is pulling. You pull it back. You smooth the fabric.

“I wrote it,” you say.

“You wrote it,” Daniel says. “But the tone. The tone suggests negligence. It suggests you were distracted.”

“I was not distracted.”

“Your file says you were on your phone.”

You blink. The room tilts slightly. The air is stale. It smells of coffee and floor wax.

“I was not on my phone,” you say.

“Check the log.”

You check the log. You open the drawer. You take out the clipboard. You look at the times. 9:14. 9:15. 9:16. You were in the room. You were with the patient. You were holding her hand. You were listening to her breath. It was shallow. It was wet.

“You were on a call,” Daniel says. “To a number in London.”

Your heart stops. Then it beats again. Hard. Against the wool.

“That was not me,” you say.

“It was your access code.”

“It was my code. But it was not me.”

Daniel leans forward. His tie is red. It is too bright. It hurts your eyes.

“Margaret, you are a senior nurse. You have a reputation. We cannot have questions asked about your reliability. The board is watching.”

“The board does not know me.”

“The board knows the numbers.”

You stand up. Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud. It is ugly.

“I am resigning,” you say.

Daniel blinks. He looks surprised. He looks relieved.

“You are resigning?”

“Yes.”

“Is this a reaction? Are you trying to force our hand?”

“No. I am tired.”

You pick up your bag. It is small. It is black. You put the cardigan in it. You fold it carefully. You fold it into a square. You put it in the back.

“You will lose your benefits,” Daniel says.

“I do not care about my benefits.”

“You will lose your pension.”

“I do not care.”

“You are making a mistake.”

“Perhaps.”

You walk to the door. Your feet are heavy. The wool is warm. It is the only warm thing in the building.

“Margaret.”

You stop. You do not turn around.

“Who was the patient?”

You turn. He is standing. He is holding a pen. He is looking at you.

“Who was the patient?” he asks again.

“Her name was Eleanor,” you say.

“Eleanor what?”

“Eleanor Fairchild.”

Daniel writes it down. He looks at the paper. He looks at you.

“She was alone,” you say.

“Yes.”

“I held her hand.”

“Yes.”

“She was cold.”

“Yes.”

“You did not hold her hand,” Daniel says. “The log says you left the room at 9:15.”

“I did not leave the room.”

“You left. You came back at 9:16.”

“I did not leave.”

“Margaret.”

“I did not leave.”

He looks at you. He is not angry. He is sad. He is tired. He looks like you. He looks like the wool. He looks worn.

“Why did you call London?” he asks.

You look at him. You see the misunderstanding in his eyes. It is a wall. It is a brick. You cannot climb over it. You cannot break through it.

“It was not a call,” you say.

“It was a data transfer.”

“It was not.”

“It was.”

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is a small sound.

“You do not understand,” you say.

“I think I understand. I think you were stealing data. I think you were selling patient information.”

“No.”

“I think you were.”

You put your hand on the door. The metal is cold.

“I am not stealing anything,” you say.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I am remembering.”

He frowns. He does not like the word.

“Remembering what?”

“Her voice.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only answer.”

You open the door. You walk out. The hallway is long. The light is grey. You walk to the elevator. The doors close. You are alone.

You press the button for the ground floor. The numbers count down. 10. 9. 8.

You take out the cardigan. You open it. You touch the lining. It is soft. It is worn. It has a patch on the left elbow. You put the patch under your thumb. You rub it. You rub it hard.

You think of Eleanor. She was small. She was white. Her hair was silver. She smelled of lavender. She smelled of fear. She had been in the hospital for four months. She had no family. She had no friends. She had no voice. Or maybe she did. Maybe you did not hear it. Maybe you were not listening.

You remember the night. The light was off. The machines were beeping. She was waking up. She was looking at you. Her eyes were dark. They were wet.

“Who are you?” she had asked.

“I am your nurse,” you had said.

“No. I know that. Who are you?”

You had not answered. You had checked her vitals. You had adjusted the IV. You had been busy. You had been professional. You had been correct.

She had died in the morning. You had been there. You had held her hand. You had felt her warmth leave. You had felt the cold come in.

You did not call London. You did not transfer data. You did not steal. You sat in the chair. You looked at the wall. You looked at the clock. You waited for the beep to stop.

You pressed the button for the ground floor again. The doors opened. You walked out. The air was cold. It was November. The leaves were brown. They were on the ground.

You walked to the park. It was empty. The benches were wet. You sat on one. You took out the cardigan. You put it on your lap. You opened it. You looked inside.

There was a pocket. A small pocket. You had not noticed it before. You put your hand in. You felt something. It was hard. It was small. You took it out.

It was a key. A brass key. It was old. It was tarnished. It had a tag. You read the tag.

Room 4B.

You looked at the hospital. It was behind you. It was tall. It was grey. It was the same building.

You looked at the key. You looked at the park. You looked at the sky. It was white. It was flat.

You put the key in your pocket. You put the cardigan back on. You stood up. You walked back to the hospital.

You walked into the lobby. The receptionist was there. She was young. She was looking at her phone.

“Hello,” you said.

She looked up. She did not know you.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I am looking for Room 4B,” you said.

“4B?” she said. “That is in the East Wing. It is an office. It is closed.”

“Who is the key for?” you asked.

“I do not know. Why do you have a key?”

“It is an old key.”

“It looks new.”

“It is old.”

“Maybe it is for the archives.”

“Maybe.”

You walked to the East Wing. The doors were glass. You pushed them open. The hallway was quiet. The carpet was red. It was faded.

You walked to 4B. The door was wood. It was brown. The handle was brass. You put the key in the lock. It turned. It was smooth. It was easy.

You pushed the door open.

The room was small. The walls were white. The floor was tile. There was a desk. There was a chair. There was a window. The window was open. The air was cold.

On the desk, there was a folder. It was brown. It was thick. You opened it.

It was a file. It was your file.

You looked at the first page. Your name. Your photo. Your dates.

You looked at the next page. It was a report. It was dated last year. It was signed by Daniel.

It said: *Margaret Holloway has shown signs of dissociative disorder. She is prone to fabricating memories. She is a risk to patient safety. Recommend termination.*

You read it again. You read it again.

You looked at the folder. It was thick. It was full of reports. It was full of notes. It was full of lies.

You looked at the window. You looked at the sky.

You closed the folder. You put it on the desk. You turned around.

You were not alone.

Daniel was standing in the doorway. He was holding a camera. He was taking pictures.

“You found it,” he said.

“You knew,” you said.

“I always knew.”

“You lied.”

“I protected the institution.”

“You lied to me.”

“I told the truth.”

“You said I was stealing data.”

“I said you were a risk.”

“You said I was on my phone.”

“I said you were distracted.”

“You made it up.”

“I made it up.”

He stopped. He looked at you. He looked tired. He looked worn.

“I was afraid,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

“Why?”

“Because you see things.”

“I see nothing.”

“You see everything.”

He put the camera down. He leaned against the door.

“I have been here for thirty years,” he said. “I have seen people die. I have seen people lie. I have seen people break. You are the first one who does not break.”

“I am breaking.”

“No. You are holding.”

“With what?”

“With the wool.”

He looked at the cardigan. He looked at your hands.

“You are not a thief,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are not a liar.”

“I am not.”

“You are a witness.”

“I am a witness.”

He stepped into the room. He walked to the desk. He picked up the folder. He looked at the pages. He looked at the signature.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I was wrong.”

“Are you right now?”

“I do not know.”

You looked at him. You looked at the key. You looked at the cardigan.

The wool was thinning. You could feel the cold. You could feel the air.

You took off the cardigan. You folded it. You put it in your bag.

“You can go,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Take the key.”

“Yes.”

You walked out. The hallway was quiet. The light was grey.

You walked to the elevator. You pressed the button. The doors closed.

You were alone.

You took out the key. You held it in your hand. It was cold. It was hard.

You thought of Eleanor. You thought of her voice. You thought of her eyes.

You did not call London. You did not transfer data. You did not steal.

You sat in the chair. You held her hand. You felt her warmth leave.

You were not a thief. You were not a liar. You were a witness.

You pressed the button for the ground floor. The doors opened. You walked out.

The air was cold. It was November. The leaves were brown.

You put the key in your pocket. You put the cardigan on your back. You walked away.

The wool was thinning. But it was still there. It was still warm. It was still yours.

You walked into the city. The people were walking. They were talking. They were living.

You were not them. You were not alone. You were not with them.

You were between.

You held the key. You held the truth. You held the cold.

You walked on.