The Corridor of Unnames

The green enamel cup on the dresser cools the air. The corridor curves downhill, the carpet thick beneath my shoes, shifting the temperature of the air. The small dog, a terrier mix with a harness reading 'PENN', watches me. It does not blink. Its weight is incorrect; it presses against the floorboards with the mass of a cinder block, making a dull, solid sound. I walk toward the room numbered 314. The air here smells of iodine and old linen.

A deep, cool weight settles over my shoulders, the absence of a name today. It lifts me a little. I reach the door marked 314. When I push it, it does not open into a room, but into another door. This second door is made of dark, unstained mahogany and has a brass plate with only a Roman numeral: IV. I touch the cool metal of the doorknob. The dog finally shifts, its head tilting slightly, and I walk through the second opening.