I can’t fall asleep.

How long had I been sleeping before Ruth woke me? I still can’t remember going to bed. I roll over onto my side. I can’t just lie here like this.

I need to move.

I slide on my slippers and tiptoe to the door. I move the chair aside as quietly as possible and open the door.

I take a long time between each step. It feels like minutes. I’m unsteady, and I don’t want anyone to hear me. I keep thinking I hear Shelley behind me, or Ruth. But each time I look back, it’s only a dark, empty hallway. When the sensor light comes on, I freeze, momentarily, then continue, step by step, toward Hilbert’s room.

His door is ajar. I hold on to the frame, peer in. I see his sleeping shape. A human form moving up and down, up and down. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He’s sleeping peacefully. Watching him makes me feel better, safer, more secure. It makes me emotional. I well up.

I look closer. He’s wearing his headphones. He’s in a deep sleep. It’s better not to disturb him. I should let him sleep. I want him to have a rest.

I walk by Pete’s room. His door is wide-open. I’m surprised he’s not in bed. He is standing in his pajamas, shoulders slumped, with his back to the door. I watch him for a while and see he’s holding his violin. He starts playing the same series of notes he always plays. I listen. It never varies. He gets to a certain point, doesn’t hit the note he wants, and plays it over, joylessly. Again and again. The same three notes. Over and over and over.

I walk toward the front doors of Six Cedars, to the foyer. As I get closer, my heart starts pounding. Maybe I should seek out Shelley, tell her my suspicions, ask for help to get outside. But I don’t even know where she sleeps.

One moment, she’ll be right beside me, walking with me through the hallway, helping me sit at dinner, then gone. I won’t see her for long stretches of time. This is her house. She’s in control here. She can do whatever she wants.

I try to open the front doors, where Mike and I walked in together on the first day, but they’re locked. The front door is the only door with locks. The keypad is beside the door with numbers and letters on it. I’ve never been held against my will before. Never in my life. I’ve always been able to go outside when I want. To breathe the fresh air and feel the wind. I’m about to push some buttons at random, to see if I can guess the code, to get outside, when I hear Pete’s violin echoing down the hall.

Right beside the door, mounted on the wall, is a painting. I used to love this print. Was it always here? The Little Owl by Albrecht Dürer. Sixteenth century. Watercolor on paper. The original is in a museum in Vienna, but I’ve always been captivated by the dark, round eyes of the owl.