As tempting as it was to take a pull from his flask, Max wanted to face the asylum with his wits about him. The coach rolled on into the night, moving over the train tracks of the Shore Line and into the farms that populated the outskirts of Saltaire. The coachman never hesitated, following the road until tall imposing walls of brick covered ivy rose up out of the darkness. An iron gate bearing the initials WA stood open, but not quite welcoming.

Beyond the gate, a well manicured lawn dotted with a few beech trees filled the space between walls and asylum. The large building that squatted against the back wall had obviously been a mansion converted for use as an asylum.

Max popped out of the coach as it rolled to a stop. An unnatural quiet permeated the night air.

The coachman broke the silence. “Shall I wait for you, sir?”

“No, I fear I will be staying the night but I would like to arrange a pick up at ten tomorrow morning.”

He agreed, cracking his whip and leaving Max to stand alone against the asylum.