High heels. It’s her.

“Napping in your favorite spot,” Shelley says as she steps into the room. “I know how much you like the view in here.”

Do I have a favorite spot? I have to clear my throat before I speak.

“What about that one?” I ask, pointing at a small chair against the wall.

“That chair?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing to look at if you sit there. You love your window seat. You can see the trees.”

Have I ever sat here before?

I’ve always had vibrant dreams. Even as a young child. I’ve dreamed about colors. I have many small, short dreams. Restless dreams. Plotless dreams. Now, as an old woman I dream of the tall trees behind the residence, the ones with no leaves, standing in unison, swaying slightly, huddled together for warmth.

“I want to go outside.”

Her expression changes. Not dramatically, but I notice.

“We have all these beautiful windows to provide as much light as possible. I don’t want to upset you, but I think you’re having a bit of a memory blip.”

No, I think. I’m not having a memory blip. I’m just realizing I haven’t been outside in days, not since I’ve moved in. I used to always go for walks, even in the coldest weather. I loved feeling the air on my face. I didn’t care if my feet got wet in the rain. I can remember all of that.

“The forest, Penny. The cliffs. It’s treacherous and snowy out there,” she says. “And then with Gorky getting out last week.”

“Gorky?”

“The cat. You picked his name. He died, remember? He got outside and froze to death. It was awful. You’ll feel better after you rest, Penny.”

“What? The cat didn’t die!”

I look down to my foot, where he bit me. He bit me, but there’s no cut. The skin is clear. I can feel the tears now on my cheeks. They’ve been building behind my eyes for hours, days.

Shelley touches my shoulder.

“Have a nap,” she says, and walks out of the room.

Once she’s gone, I turn and see that Hilbert is sitting beside me. Has he been here the whole time? He hasn’t said anything. I’m still crying, but I feel a wave of relief at the sight of him.

He’s working on the puzzle again, the one we started in his room, of the trees. How did it get in here? He’s fixated on it. He’s almost finished it.

“We can’t go out there,” he says looking up.

I see his face, his eyes. He’s not looking well. He looks feeble and weak.

“Why, Hilbert? Why not?”

“It’s dangerous. This is where we have to be.” His voice is strained.

“Do you ever get any visitors?” I ask.

Hilbert looks down into his hands, as if he’s wondering to whom they belong to.

“At home we have visitors. All the time,” he says, looking up. “We have dinner parties and we listen to music and we all drink wine until very late. Sometimes we try to speak French together.”