A young man no older than eighteen or so sat on a stool at the end of the skinny hall. He stood at the sight of us. “Pat,” he greeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Patrick nodded to him, then pulled a key from his pocket. He ignored the door to the left and the right and unlocked the last one, number fifteen. “As you were, Sam,” Patrick told the boy, and I looked back to see Sam nod eagerly, sitting straight-backed on the stool and looking dead ahead, except for the furtive glance he spared for me.
Patrick had to duck his head to enter the room. I followed him, and the door shut with a weak thud.
The ceiling was bowed in its middle, like it might split at any moment. The four walls were papered in faded cherry blossoms, the only break in the pattern coming from a crack along o
