I do not own the rights to the television show House MD. I just like to borrow it once in awhile.

Greg House, MD, PhD, sat in his office in the Diagnostics Department at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, a brand-new soccer ball in his right hand, his left wrist cocked so he could see his watch. It was Friday, minutes before noon. Through the wall dividing his office from the one next door came a powerful New Jerseyite voice:

"SO I GO OVER TO THE SERVICE DESK AND SAY, WHERE'S MY FUCKING CAR? AND THEY SAY IT ISN'T READY YET. I BEEN WAITING HERE FOR TWO FUCKING HOURS AND YOU'RE NOT DONE? I SAY. GODDAMMIT, IT'S A BRAKE JOB, NOT A SHUTTLE LAUNCH!"

At precisely 12:01, House heard a familiar rumble outside his open window--the 12:03 hospital bus was approaching. He shifted the ball to a more comfortable position and waited…waited…waited…

At precisely 12:02:30, the bus screeched to a stop and blasted its airbrakes just beyond his window. At precisely that moment, House let the ball fly, hitting a crude target drawn in blue dry-erase marker on the wall. There was a crash in the other room, immediately followed by a bellowed curse. House caught the rebound and spun the ball on the tip of one finger, smiling with grim satisfaction.

Dr. Alison Cameron, having observed all this from the doorway, now entered. House pointed at the target.

"He's got a framed picture of himself and Dick Cheney hanging at that exact spot," he said softly, "and because he did a half-assed job, nailed it right into the drywall instead of finding a stud, all you have to do is hit the wall just right, and down goes Dick. This is the third time I've knocked it down since yesterday, and he keeps putting it right back up in the same place."

"How will he know he's annoying you if you never tell him?" Cameron asked reasonably. "Why don't you just go talk to him about it?"

House pulled a face. "What's the fun in that?" he said. "He might stop, and I've still got a few more ideas I want to try."

Cameron sighed and dropped the subject. She sat down beside his desk and said, "Have you had a chance to write that recommendation yet?"

"Recommendation. Oh, yeah, I've been meaning to get around to that. Hey, how's the job hunt going? Heard back from Linklater yet?"

"You hacked into my email," Cameron said, without surprise.

"Gotta know who my people are talking to," House said. "Wouldn't want my trade secrets to fall into the hands of my enemies. You don't want to work for Linklater. He's pompous and condescending. And his breath could knock a buzzard off a manure spreader at 50 yards."

Cameron regarded him steadily. "You know, sooner or later you're going to have to let me go work for someone else," she said.

Whoa, shaky ground. Once again, House reflected that having an affair with a subordinate created a minefield in the workplace, even after the affair was over. If he didn't stop throwing up obstacles to new employment opportunities, Cameron might read it as a sign that he regretted breaking it off.

At the same time, he wanted to see her in a job that would make good use of her considerable gifts, with a boss who had the wit to recognize them.

"I want you to go work for someone else," he told her, checking his computer address book and writing down a number. "I want you to call Jay Silberstein at Ohio. Tell him I've put you through two years of hell, and you're afraid you're gonna poison my coffee if you don't get far, far away from me. That should get you an interview." He handed her the number, and she rose to go.

"Cameron—" She turned back to him. House was tendering an envelope in her direction. "Here's your letter of recommendation." She began to open the envelope. "Don't read in front of me."

"Why not?" she asked, reading it. House groaned. Cameron looked up, her eyes filling with tears. "Do you mean all this?" House flapped a hand at her as if she were a seagull at the beach, but nodded. Cameron slowly returned the letter to its envelope. Then she leaned across the desk and kissed his head.

"Get outta here!" he growled, and Cameron left, smiling.

From the next office came the sound of tapping: Dr. Loud was putting his picture back on the wall. House hefted the ball and looked speculatively at the target, but the next bus wouldn't come until 1:03, and he would be in the clinic then. He should be there now.

Pediatrics wasn't really on the way to the clinic, but House wanted to see how Angie Barton had fared during her first chemotherapy treatment. The daughter of an old girlfriend, Angie was a 19-year-old college student who came to the clinic with a sore throat and wound up being treated for acute lymphocytic leukemia. As cancers go it was one of the lesser evils, but House had prevailed upon his friend and sparring partner James Wilson, a respected oncologist, to treat her. At the same time, House tended to be possessive about his patients and anyway, he enjoyed Angie's company, so he made the long detour from his office to the fifth floor and poked his head into her room.

Angie was going to be staying at the hospital for at least three weeks, and she had decorated her room in a style House referred to as Hippie Whorehouse. There were Indian-print bedspreads tacked to the windows and piles of embroidered pillows on the bed, and a garish lamp with a beaded shade instead of the regulation hospital gooseneck on her bed table. House noticed that the Rastafarian hat he'd brought her from his trip to New York City was now adorning the head of the phrenology model that someone—probably Chase—had smuggled up from Lecture Room D. There was a realistic-looking spliff hanging from the model's lips, probably the work of Angie's boyfriend, Nate. But the place of honor was taken by a vast plasma TV, a rental arranged by Angie's dad. The TV was a pleasant addition to the hospital that House and some of his team had begun to regard as one of the perks of their job.

Chase was here now, in fact, hugely enjoying the movie of the moment: Stuart Little. "Isn't this kind of advanced for you?" House asked him. "If there's anything you don't understand, there's a probably a five-year-old down the hall who can explain it."

Chase was chuckling. "This is great," he said. "The mouse was driving this little car, and—"

"How're you doing?" House asked Angie. She looked pale but determinedly chipper.

"Not too bad," she told him gamely. "I started to get a headache, so they adjusted the drip, and then it was fine. I ate a humongous lunch."

"That's the prednisone munchies," House reminded her. "You'll probably feel fine today, okay tomorrow, not so hot on Sunday. Remember, Dr. Wilson has all kinds of tricks up his sleeve, so don't tough it out." He watched the movie for a moment and added, "I never figured you for a family fare kinda gal."

"He picked it out," said Angie, pointing at Chase. "He likes one of the actors."

"Michael J. Fox?"

"No, the one who plays the dad. I don't know his name."

"Hugh Laurie," said Chase, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"The Black Adder!" shouted House. "Don't tell me you watch that too!"

Chase looked over at his boss, delighted. "I love The Black Adder!"

"What's a block otter?" Angie wanted to know. "He's got Parkinson's Disease," she added.

Chase was confused. "Hugh?"

"Michael J. Fox," said Angie.

"Hugh's on first," House said helpfully.

This did not clarfiy matters for Chase. "What?"

"What's on second," Angie explained, deadpan.

"Michael J. Fox has Parkinson's," said Chase, cautiously.

"I know," said Angie. "He was on The Daily Show awhile back. He was having a really bad day, he said, and he could hardly talk, even though he'd taken his meds. It was really sad. Sometimes his face freezes up, and you can't tell what he's thinking. How can you be an actor if you can't show people how you feel?"

"Hypomimia," said House. "It'd come in handy for poker."

"What?"

"What's on first," smirked Chase. House looked at him reproachfully.

"The child is trying to learn," he said. "Hypomimia means you can't voluntarily make facial movements, Angie."

"Oh. Well, anyway. It must be awful not to be able to do a job you really love anymore."

"Sucks to be him," agreed House. "Where's your mom?"

Angie glanced at him quickly, then looked back at the TV. "She went to the cafeteria to get some lunch. She left about five minutes ago." She added, casually, "You can probably catch up with her if you hurry."

"Thanks," said House, carefully, "but I gotta get downstairs. Clinic duty."

Angie was already reabsorbed in the movie, but Chase gave him a quick look.

"Shouldn't you be falsifying your CV?" House asked him nastily, and left.

He took the elevator to the ground floor, fully intending to go right to the clinic, but decided to stop at the Grab and Go first for something to tide him over until supper. Through the plate glass windows he saw Carolyn Barton sitting at a table on the patio, her face tilted toward the sun, and he decided to drop by just to say hello.

"Shhh," Carolyn told him as he sat down. "I'm soaking up sunlight in my pineal gland."

"Why?" asked House, unwrapping a Snickers bar.

"I don't know. A friend of mine told me to do it. He never said why."

"If your friend told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?"

"Well, then I would want to know why," conceded Carolyn, and turned to face him. They had met their first year in college and had three very good years together before they parted under circumstances he preferred not to think about. Then, a quarter-century later, she'd appeared at the clinic, Angie in tow, and they'd been passing the odd hour together ever since. House was a lone wolf by nature, not given to seeking people out unless he had a specific purpose in mind for them, but he had gotten used to being around Carolyn and her daughter—he wasn't sure why. There was something going on there that he wanted to be part of, though whether it was out of friendship or curiousity or nostalgia wasn't yet clear.

Carolyn drained her iced tea and started to gather her things together. "I'd love to chat," she said, "but I have to get back to work."

"You work?"

She paused. "Uh, yeah, I work. How do you think we eat?"

"I thought Scott paid for everything."

"He pays for everything for Angie. But I never took alimony. I've worked ever since the divorce."

"What do you do?"

Carolyn made a dismissive gesture. "Publicity for the university library system. They have a lot of special exhibits; I make sure they get promoted. They publish a newsletter to soften up big donors, and I oversee that. It's a lower-brain function job, but it puts me in the way of a lot of interesting information, and I get to borrow all the books I want."

"So that's what you do with a major in clit lit."

"Behold the fruits of a liberal arts education. I like working for the university. They're being great about Angie's illness; I'm working half time now, and when she comes home to finish her treatments I can take all the full-time leave I need and still have a job to go back to. Without pay, of course; at that point I go on the dole with Scott. But still."

House squinted off into the distance. "Are you coming back here later?"

"Yes, to say good night to Angie."

"Want to grab something to eat?"

"Sounds great. Oh, wow, look at the time. I'll stop by your office? Around six, okay?" She left in a flurry of skirts and tote bags.

Why did I do that? House wondered. Now I'll have to talk during dinner whether I feel like it or not. He thought of calling her around four and pretending to have a case that would keep him busy all night. On the other hand, he thought, I might feel like talking at dinner. He decided to wait and see.

Having exhausted the possibilities for procrastination, House straggled into the clinic. It was after one. The waiting room was dismayingly full, and the crowd included one irate administrator. Cuddy greeted him from across the room, her voice as sharp as vinegar.

"Dr. House. How nice of you to join us."

"Dr. Cuddy. What an unpleasant surprise," said House, picking up a file. "Calvin--Hoobler? Hobbler? Exam Room One."

A young man rose from his chair, one hand engulfed in a grapefruit-sized wad of paper towels, a very pregnant young woman at his side.

"You're an hour late!" hissed Cuddy.

"You're late?" House said loudly. "Well, don't look at me. I wasn't even in town that week!" He led the bewildered couple into the examining room.

Calvin Hoover was a 23-year-old male with a lacerated middle finger, incurred while repairing a broken garage window.

"Looks like the tendons may be severed," said House, studying the wreckage under a bright light. "You should've gone to the ER."

"He should have gone to the ER Tuesday, when it happened," said his wife. "Instead, he went out on his motorcycle! For an hour!"

House regarded the young man sympathetically. Early twenties, not much money, fatherhood less than a month away--who wouldn't crave an hour of escape? Unfortunately, his wife was right.

"This is a nasty cut," he said. "You're probably going to need surgery, or you could lose the finger. And in New Jersey, you need that finger for driving." He cleaned the wound, wrapped it, and sent them off with a referral to an orthopedic surgeon.

After that there was a case of bronchitis, an elderly woman who said she had heart palpitations but really just wanted someone to talk to, and a teenaged girl who asked for the morning-after pill.

"How long since you had unprotected intercourse?" asked House.

"I haven't had it yet," the girl admitted, "but there's a dance tonight, and I might."

"So you wanted to have it on hand, just in case."

She nodded.

"If you think you might have sex tonight, why don't you buy some condoms or sponges, and have protected intercourse?"

"Well...I..." She banged her feet against the examining table in frustration.

"You don't want it to look like you planned ahead, right? It's okay to have sex if it 'just happens'."

The girl stared at him, her expression deliberately vacant.

House sighed and got out his prescription pad. "Here," he said, handing her the script. "But do yourself a favor; stay home tonight and watch My Super Sweet 16. You're not ready for prime time." She flounced away without a word.