The first one is standard issue hospital drab, a dull gray that's supposed to blend into the background along with IV stands and bed rails. There's a hard black plastic grip and House feels sweat under his palm the first time he wraps his fingers around it. It's everything he hates: utilitarian, boring, another sign of how his life has changed.

"It's progress," Wilson points out. "First the wheelchair, then crutches, now the cane, and then ..."

"Then nothing." House holds the cane between his fingers, the metal cool beneath his skin. The crutches are on the floor still within reach if he wants them. "You've seen the same scans I have. It's not going to get any better than this."

"You don't know that. Maybe if you ..."

House stares at Wilson, cuts off whatever useless bit of advice he was about to give. Wilson doesn't say anything else, just stands there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he looks down at House.

House waits until Wilson leaves -- until there's no one there to watch -- before he places the cane on the floor, to push down on it and feel it take his weight. He stands there, in front of the couch, hating the way his body angles to one side, the way it depends on this piece of aluminum and plastic. It doesn't feel right, doesn't feel normal, but then normal doesn't mean anything anymore.

He takes a half-step out away from the couch, and thinks for a moment that he's going to fall, that his leg will betray him again. He tries another, feels the weakness on his right side. He feels exposed, like some old fort on a coastline whose defenses have crumbled into the sea. He's vulnerable. Open to attack from one side.

He ignores the therapist's instructions and moves the cane over to his right hand, braces himself against it, and takes another step.