The doors to the nursing home need to be cleaned. Milton can tell, even from the curb. They’re streaked and covered with finger prints. For a moment, his own, vague shape is visible in the glass. Then the doors slide open, admitting him into the facility.

In the empty lobby, the overhead fluorescents blink out a message of benign neglect. The flowers in his hand stink. Paper whites—why did he have to choose paper whites? He didn’t really stop to think about it at the store. But now, that sickly, sweet smell… Disgusting.

In his other hand is a book, a copy of Hawthorne’s The House of Seven Gables.

At the desk the nurse glances up, away, and back again, finally recognizing him. He makes her uncomfortable, this unremarkable man who sometimes comes to read to the residents, though she has no idea why. She gets herself under control quickly. Milton can’t help but admire the composure, distantly, as one might regard a passing cloud.

She offers him a sad, little smile. Her eyes are still too wide for it to be convincing, though. Above and behind her head, a clock ticks its way toward 8:00PM.

“Good evening, Nurse. I hope you are well.” His voice is soft, controlled, a touch condescending. “I’m here to read to Mrs. Brown.”

For a moment, she just stares at him. Then: “Of course,” she glances down at a clipboard in front of her. “Mrs. Brown, room 13B. Do you remember the way?”

His smile is small, tight, more a smirk. “Oh yes, perfectly well. Have a wonderful evening, nurse.” She does not reply, just looks at the clipboard.

Milton sets off down the hall on his way to dinner.

An hour later, dear Mrs. Brown tucked away in bed and sleeping soundly, Milton passes by the desk again, paper whites still in hand. The nurse is nowhere to be found. The clipboard lies forgotten, unattended.

The doors hitch and slide open before him, the streaks and fingerprints are not apparent from the inside. The filth is invisible.

Milton deposits the flowers in a waste basket just outside before making his way to the car.