The sticker had started peeling before Mike Reed ever reached the second floor. He noticed it in the elevator. One white corner curling away from the front of his navy polo. He pressed it flat with two fingers.

VISITOR. That was all it said. No name, no date, no barcode. Just one word in thick black letters on a cheap rectangle of adhesive paper.

"You'd think a place like this could spring for the good stickers," Mike said.

The woman beside him looked over. She was somewhere in her eighties, maybe older, in a pale pink sweater, holding a plastic cup with both hands as if it might get away from her. Her gray hair had been set carefully around her face.

Mike pointed at the sticker. "I've had Band-Aids put up more of a fight."

She stared at him. Then she smiled, and Mike smiled back. There it was. Forty-one years selling cars, and he'd learned there were very few people in the world who couldn't be won over if you gave them enough time.

The elevator chimed. "Second floor," a recorded voice announced.

"That's me." Mike stepped out, then turned and held the doors with one hand. "You going up?"

She nodded her head.

"All right. Enjoy the ride."

The doors closed on her smiling face, and Mike turned toward the nurses' station. A laminated sign bolted to the wall beside it read CEDAR WING — LONG-TERM CARE, the letters gone soft and gray from years of passing hands.

Ashbury Asylum was not what he'd expected. The name made it sound worse than it was. He'd pictured iron bars and white walls, people muttering in corners, the occasional straight jacket. Instead, the Cedar Wing looked like an old nursing home somebody had tried hard to brighten up. Pale green walls. Framed landscapes at regular intervals. Somewhere nearby, a television audience erupted in canned laughter.

But the building betrayed its age underneath the effort. The floorboards dipped beneath the newer vinyl. The radiators had been painted so many times their edges had gone soft. Long cracks ran through the plaster near the ceiling.

Ashbury had been around forever. Mike remembered hearing about it as a kid. Parents used to threaten their children with it. Keep acting like that, and they'll send you to Ashbury. He wondered how many parents still said things like that, or if there was a new, more monstrous place to threaten children with.

"Can I help you?" a nurse asked from behind the station, with a friendly smile.

Mike gave her his best smile. "I sure hope so. I'm looking for Martin Kelley."

She checked a clipboard. "Room two-fourteen."

"Perfect. That's what they told me downstairs."

"You family?"

"Worse. Former coworker." That got another smile out of her. Mike leaned against the counter. "We sold cars together for twenty-seven years. You spend that long beside somebody in a showroom, you know more about them than most relatives ever will."

"I can imagine."

"Martin could sell snow tires in July."

She laughed. Mike tapped the edge of the desk. "That's why I liked him."

He started down the hall, then stopped. "Two-fourteen was this way?"

She pointed. "Last door before the lounge."

"Thanks."

Mike turned away. The sticker lifted again at the corner. He pressed it flat without breaking stride.

Martin looked older. That shouldn't have surprised Mike, but it did. They hadn't seen each other in almost three years, and Martin had always been thin. Now he looked hollowed out, his cheeks sunken beneath skin gone almost gray. Still, when he saw Mike in the doorway, his whole face changed.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in."

Mike grinned. "You look terrible."

"So do you."

"Yeah, but I've earned it."

Martin laughed, and there was the old Martin, right there under the gray skin and wrinkles.

The room was small but comfortable enough. A narrow bed against one wall, a nightstand and a wooden chair beside it. The window looked out over a stretch of pine trees and, farther off, the dark ridge of the mountains.

"You get room service?" Mike asked.

Martin nodded at a tray on the rolling table. "Lunch."

Mike looked down at a bowl with a skin of cooling soup and half a sandwich. "Jeez. That's depressing."

"The soup's good."

"You've always had low standards."

"I sold Fords with you for twenty-seven years."

Mike put a hand over his heart. "That cuts deep."

For the next forty minutes they talked like no time had passed at all. The dealership. Old customers. Managers they'd hated. The time Martin sold a used Taurus to a woman who came back two weeks later swearing the radio only played country music. Mike laughed until his eyes watered. He had missed this more than he'd expected to.

Then Martin went quiet, his gaze sliding past Mike toward the open doorway.

Mike turned to look. A man in blue scrubs was wheeling someone down the hallway. Nothing unusual about that, except the patient was strapped into the chair. Not loosely. Leather restraints crossed both wrists and ankles. Mike caught only a glimpse before a nurse stepped into view and pulled the door mostly shut.

"Everything okay?" Mike asked.

Martin looked back at him. "What?"

"You went somewhere for a second."

"Nothing." He shook his head.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Mike studied him for a moment. Martin had never been a good liar. Then again, he'd never been in a place like this before. Mike let it go.

"So," he said, nodding at the tray, "you really like the soup?"

Martin looked down at it. "It's not bad."

"That might be the saddest thing you've ever said."

Martin smiled again, but his eyes stayed on the door a beat too long.

Mike left a little after three. Martin looked tired, and he didn't want to overstay.

"I'll come back next week."

Martin nodded. "You don't have to."

"I know."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know that too."

Mike squeezed his shoulder. "I'll call first."

Martin looked at him for a long moment before he nodded. "Okay."

Mike had made it halfway to the elevators when he glanced down. The sticker was gone.

"For crying out loud." He checked the front of his shirt as if it might have migrated elsewhere. Nothing. He patted his pants, checked the sole of one shoe. No sticker anywhere. He glanced back down the hall, considered retracing his steps, then decided against it. What did it matter? He was leaving.

The elevator took him to the first floor. The receptionist at the front desk was different. Mike noticed it right away. The woman who'd checked him in had been blond, maybe fifty, with red-framed glasses and a voice that sounded like thirty years of cigarettes. This one was younger. Dark hair. No glasses.

Mike walked up. "Hi there."

She looked up. "Hello."

"I seem to have lost my badge."

"Your badge?"

He pointed at his shirt. "The visitor sticker. Apparently, it gave up on me somewhere around mile three."

She just stared at him.

"The sticker?" Mike said. "Says VISITOR? Very exclusive club?"

Something shifted in her expression. Not confusion. Concern.

"Sir, where are you coming from?"

"Second floor."

"What were you doing upstairs?"

Mike laughed. "Visiting."

She didn't laugh. "Who were you visiting?"

"Martin Kelley."

She glanced toward a door behind the desk, then back at him. "Could you wait here for a moment?"

His smile faded. "What's the problem?"

"There's no problem."

"Sounds like there's a problem."

"I just need you to wait."

She stood. Mike looked toward the glass entrance doors, maybe twenty feet off. Sunlight flat and bright on the hoods of the parked cars beyond them.

"Actually, I'm heading out."

"Sir." He stopped and looked back at her. "Could I get your name?"

He stared at her. "You already have my name."

"I'm asking you now."

"Michael Reed. Mike."

She went still. It was subtle, but Mike saw it.

"What?" he asked.

She looked toward the hallway instead of answering. "Mr. Reed, why don't we have a seat?"

Mike laughed once. "No."

"Please."

"No, I'm leaving."

A man appeared from the hallway. He was tall, heavyset, in blue scrubs. Mike recognized him vaguely from upstairs.

"Everything all right, Jenna?"

She nodded at Mike. "Mr. Reed is trying to leave."

The man looked at Mike. Not surprised. Not confused. Tired.

"Mike."

Something cold moved through Mike's stomach. "You know me?"

The man came closer, slow. "Of course I know you."

Mike looked from him to Jenna. "What is this?"

"Let's go back upstairs."

"No."

"Mike."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

The man held up both hands. "All right."

"Good."

"Let's just talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," Mike said. "I came here to visit Martin Kelley. I'm done visiting Martin Kelley. Now I'm going home."

The man glanced at Jenna. It was quick, small, the kind of look people gave each other when they thought you didn't notice. Mike had spent his life noticing.

"Check the visitor log," he said to her.

She hesitated.

"Go ahead. I signed in, around two. Two-fifteen maybe."

Jenna went behind the desk and opened a binder, flipping through it while Mike watched. Brand-new white pages. He frowned. "That's not it."

"What?"

"That's not the book I signed."

"This is the visitor log."

"No. The one I signed was older. Black cover, cracked along the spine." Jenna looked at the man in scrubs, and Mike felt his pulse pick up. "There was another woman here. Blond. Red glasses."

"I've been at the desk since seven this morning," Jenna said.

"No, you haven't."

"Yes, sir."

"I spoke to her."

"Mike," the man said.

Mike turned on him. "Don't Mike me."

"My name is Robert. You know me."

"No, I don't."

Robert looked hurt, or pretended to; Mike couldn't tell which was worse. "You've known me for three years."

Mike stared at him, then laughed. It came out wrong. Too loud.

"That's very good."

"Mike…”

"That's very good."

Robert kept his hands visible. "Let's go upstairs."

"Where's my car?"

Robert said nothing.

"My car," Mike said again. "Blue Buick LaCrosse. I parked it outside."

"You don't have a car here."

"It's in the parking lot."

"Mike."

"My wallet's in the center console. My phone's in there too. We'll walk outside, I'll show you both, and then you can explain what's going on."

Robert shook his head. "You don't have a car."

Mike looked through the glass doors at the rows of vehicles shimmering in the heat beyond them. For one strange second, he couldn't remember where he'd parked. Then it came back; third row, near the light pole. Or maybe second. No. Third. He was almost certain.

"Fine," he said. "Open the door."

Robert stepped between him and the exit, and that was the moment the whole thing curdled into something else. Mike's face hardened.

"Move."

"I can't do that."

"You can."

"You know I can't."

"No. I really, really don't."

Robert's eyes softened in a way Mike didn't like at all. "Mike, your wife brought you here four years ago."

The room seemed to tilt. Mike stared at him. "What did you say?"

"Your wife brought you to Ashbury."

Mike laughed again, quieter this time. "My wife is dead."

"I know," Robert said, gently, which made it worse. "She died two years ago."

Mike's mouth went dry. He looked at Jenna. Her face showed nothing but sympathy, and he hated her for it.

"She died at home."

Robert nodded. "Yes."

"I was there."

Robert said nothing.

"I was there when she died."

"I know you believe that."

Mike's heart hammered. "Don't."

"Mike…”

"Don't you say that to me."

A door opened somewhere down the hall. Footsteps. Mike looked toward the elevators.

"Get Martin."

Robert's expression changed. "Mike."

"Martin Kelley. Room two-fourteen. I just spent forty minutes with him." He stepped closer. "I know what I ate for breakfast this morning. I know what road I drove here on. I know I stopped at a red light behind a woman in a green Subaru with a golden retriever hanging out the back window. I know I came through those doors and signed your stupid book." His voice was carrying now, echoing through the lobby. "And I know Martin Kelley likes the soup."

Robert stared at him. Then, very quietly: "Martin Kelley died two years ago."

Mike stopped breathing. The building went silent; even the television down the hall seemed to disappear.

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"No."

"Mike…”

"I just saw him."

Robert didn't answer.

"I talked to him. He was upstairs. Room two-fourteen."

Robert hesitated. "That's your room."

Mike stared at him.

"You've been in two-fourteen for almost three years."

"No."

"I'm going to take you upstairs now."

"No."

"We can talk about this there."

"No."

"Mike."

"No!"

Mike shoved him, hard. Robert stumbled back into a chair. Jenna shouted. And Mike ran. He didn't think about it, just moved, past the front desk, past the plant by the window, toward the doors. His hands hit the horizontal bar.

Nothing happened. Locked. He slammed it again. "Open it!"

Robert grabbed him from behind. Mike twisted against him. "Get off me!"

"Mike, stop!"

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

Another orderly appeared, then another. Hands closed on his arms. Mike kicked, and someone shouted his name, and he screamed over all of it.

"I AM A VISITOR!" His voice cracked. "I AM A VISITOR!"

They pulled him backward. He caught Jenna's eye. "Check the floor!"

She stared at him. "What?"

"My sticker! It fell off! Find it!"

Robert wrapped both arms around him. "Mike, stop."

"You're doing this!"

"We're trying to help you."

"YOU'RE DOING THIS!"

Mike wrenched one arm free and struck someone, and after that everything happened fast. A knee against the floor, his cheek pressed to cold vinyl, hands pinning his wrists, a voice calling for medication. He screamed until his throat hurt. He shouted Martin's name. He shouted his wife's name. He shouted for the police. Someone told him to breathe. Someone else told him he was safe. Mike started laughing. He couldn't help it. The whole thing was too insane. Too perfectly insane.

"You think I don't know what this is?"

No one answered. He turned his head as far as it would go. Robert knelt beside him, sweat darkening the front of his scrubs.

"You saw something," Mike whispered.

Robert frowned.

"That's what this is."

"Mike…”

"Upstairs. The hallway."

"What are you talking about?"

Robert looked genuinely confused. Mike almost believed him. Almost.

"You moved somebody past Martin's room," he said. "Strapped down. You didn't want me to see it."

Robert just stared at him. Mike smiled. There. He didn't know what he had, exactly. But it was something.

"You screwed up."

A nurse approached with a syringe, and Mike's smile disappeared.

"No."

She crouched near him. "Mike."

"No."

"It's just going to help you calm down."

"I am calm."

"You're not."

"I know exactly what you're doing."

She moved closer, and something in Mike recognized her: dark hair streaked with gray, kind eyes. Marie. Marie Jones. He'd seen her upstairs. Hadn't he?

"Marie."

She paused, and he saw it.

"You know me."

"Yes, Mike."

"No. From today."

Her expression didn't change. "You've known me for years."

"Baloney."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

She administered the injection. Mike jerked. "Get away from me."

"It's done."

"What did you give me?"

"Something to help."

"I don't need help."

"I know this is frightening."

"You don't know anything."

His voice sounded farther away now. Marie touched his shoulder. "We're going to take you back to your room."

"My room is at my house." No one answered. "White house. Green shutters." His eyelids felt heavy. "Maple Street." He tried to remember the number. It came, then slipped. "Forty…”

Robert and another orderly lifted him onto a stretcher. Mike tried to sit up; his arms barely moved.

"You can't do this."

Robert adjusted the strap across him. "We've got you."

"That's not what I said."

The ceiling passed overhead. White tile, light, white tile, light. Mike tried counting them and lost track at seven. The elevator opened. A soft chime.

"Second floor," the recorded voice announced.

Mike knew that voice. He'd heard it earlier. That's me. The thought made him laugh. Nobody else did.

They rolled him down the hall. The nurses' station drifted past. The same nurse who'd given him directions was standing behind it, watching him go. Mike focused on her.

"You."

She stepped toward the stretcher. "Hi, Mike."

"You told me Martin was two-fourteen."

She looked at Marie. "No."

Mike blinked. "Yes."

"I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"I wasn't working at the desk when you came down."

Mike tried to lift his head. The hallway rolled sideways.

"You laughed."

"At what?"

"Fords."

Her face changed; not much, just enough. Mike saw it.

"You remember."

"I think you need to rest."

"You remember."

Robert started pushing the stretcher again. Mike laughed, slurred now. "There. There you go."

Room 214 waited at the end of the hall, door standing open. They rolled him inside. He looked around, and something in him recoiled. The room was wrong. Martin's tray was gone. The chair had moved. The bedspread was blue instead of gray.

No. Not moved. Different. Everything was different. Or maybe he'd remembered it wrong.

"This isn't..."

Marie adjusted the blanket over him. "Easy."

"This isn't Martin's room."

"No."

"You said it was mine."

"It is."

Mike tried to laugh. Nothing came out. His eyes wandered toward the nightstand. A wristwatch, an old paperback, and a ceramic mug. CARTER AUTO GROUP — SALESMAN OF THE YEAR.

Mike stared at it. "No." His tongue felt thick. His gaze moved higher to a photograph propped beside the lamp, and he went still.

It was Ellen. Twenty-five years younger, standing beside him on a beach in Maine, her hair blowing across her face, his arm around her, both of them sunburned and laughing. Ogunquit. Their twentieth anniversary. He remembered the stranger who'd taken the picture, how he'd handed the man the camera, how Ellen had complained the wind was ruining her hair, and he'd told her she looked beautiful. He remembered all of it. Every second.

His eyes filled with tears. "How..."

Marie followed his gaze. "Ellen brought that for you."

Mike shook his head, barely. "No."

"She wanted you to have things from home."

"No."

"Mike."

"How did you..." His eyes closed. He forced them open. "How did you get that?"

Marie answered him, but her voice had gone too distant to make out. The room darkened at the edges. Mike looked at Ellen, then the mug, then the watch. He tried to remember the drive to Ashbury; the green Subaru, the dog, the red light, the woman downstairs with the red glasses, the sticker. He could see the sticker clearly. White. Black letters. VISITOR. He had pressed it flat in the elevator.

Hadn't he?

Mike tried to sit up. His body refused.

"Find..."

Marie leaned closer. "What?"

"My..."

The word wouldn't come. Mike looked down at his chest. Nothing there.

His eyes closed. The last thing he heard was Marie telling him he was safe.

---

The hallway was quiet by six. Dinner carts had come and gone; the televisions in the common room played the evening news to an audience that had mostly stopped watching.

Robert Haskell walked the second-floor corridor with a paper cup of coffee in one hand, his shoulder still aching where Mike had shoved him. He'd dealt with worse. Still, the whole thing had left him unsettled. Mike had never gotten that violent before. Confused, yes, agitated, sometimes angry, but not like that.

He stopped near the elevators. Something white was stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He lifted his foot and peeled it off. It was a wrinkled adhesive sticker.

VISITOR.

Robert looked down the hallway and, for a moment, stood very still.

Then the elevator chimed. The doors opened, and a woman stepped out carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where room two-eighteen is?"

Robert looked at the sticker in his hand, then at her.

"Sure," he said, and pointed down the hall. "Right this way."

The elevator doors closed behind her. Robert looked once more at the sticker in his palm, then dropped it in the trash.

The End