The thing is," she told Wilson, when they'd finally worked around to talking about it, "I'm not that upset." He started to interrupt, but she kept going. "It's like…" She struggled for the metaphor. "It's like when you lose your keys." She glanced up. She knew that would get him, and it did; his eyebrows shot up and he coughed.

She waited, but he was going to let her play it out.

She said, "Okay. You need your keys, right? You need them to go places. And to lock your…" She chewed her lip. "You need them."

"All right," said Wilson, glancing at his key ring.

They were in his office, which had long been established as the sort of unofficial confessional of the sixth floor. It was the smallest office assigned to a department head in the entire hospital. Wilson had never asked why it was his, had never asked to move. He was behind his desk, nearly walled in by a stack of blue oncology charts. She was perched on the edge of his couch, elbows on her knees, hands folded around her cup. She anticipated a comment about defensive body language, but Wilson didn't make comments like that.

"You lose them," she continued, "and there are things you can't do, but it's not like… they're mostly symbolic anyway. It's more annoying than anything else. You don't really feel bad about it. You don't… if he really…" She had lost the thread, fumbled the concept. She covered her confusion by taking a slow sip. The coffee singed her tongue and throat.

Wilson gripped the bridge of his nose. "You're saying there's something wrong with the way you're handling this."

"I'm saying there's nothing to handle. I should feel worse." She stared at the cup for a minute, focusing on the lip. Do you have two kinds of lipstick in the same shade? House had asked her, and he'd had a kind of impatient, distant expression. An odd question. But he had an odd question every day. He practically was an odd question. "I should feel guilty." She shook her head, blinked get the sting out of her eyes. "Instead I'm just—tired."

"Tired?"

Probing for information without giving any. She pursed her lips.

Wilson rearranged a couple of things on his desk."Two minutes ago, you were talking about your arm. Then it was the Middle East." He rotated his coffee cup into a more pleasing orientation. "And then it was keys. And now you're not talking at all."

This didn't seem to require a response, so she kept silent. She lifted one hand from her cup and massaged the back of her neck.

"Have you considered the possibility," he said patiently, "that what you're going through is not symbolic?"

She bristled. "Well, how do you feel about it?"

Wilson took a deep breath and almost met her eyes. "I think it's good."

"Good?" There was a little lilt of anger in her voice; she tried to swallow it.

He nodded. "Good for him, good for you—"

"Good for you?" she fired back.

He shrugged, but his face tightened.

She said, "He's your best friend."

He chewed on a thumbnail, nodded. "And I'm sad for him. And worried."

"When I came in here," she said, "you thought…" She'd entered without knocking. When the door swung open, Wilson grinned, like he had just come up with the world's best joke and absolutely had to tell someone. Then he'd registered her: Cuddy. His expression morphed into, oh, it's you, then settled into something reserved and patient. And a little lost.

"And that," he agreed. "But where he is… it's good. I mean, I know the people." He had already assured her of this, many times; he held up a hand against her protest. "But I also mean where he is." Wilson's hand came to rest gently on the desk.

She understood that he was talking about their friend's location in a larger sense, a spiritual or emotional sense, and while this idea troubled and frustrated her, she wasn't sure she disagreed. That part of House that was irresponsible, that was dangerous, that suffered—she accepted it, minimized it, even, because the part of him that was good and bright outshined it. But she'd spent a lot of time worrying about the day the balance tipped, and the fact that it had was shocking but almost cathartic. He had to get better or he had to get worse. Didn't he?

Wasn't any change a sign of progress?

The ambiguity of the question disturbed her so deeply that she ducked it, grasped onto the smaller assurance of at least he's physically safe. She wondered if that was the only certainty she'd ever get.

Wilson caught her expression. He eyed her carefully, applying a mental slide rule to their relationship. Then he inched his chair back and propped his feet on the desk, ankles crossed. His way of underlining the point without making it seem like a big deal. And of hunkering down, preparing himself.

As his nominal boss, she could have said something, but she didn't.

"No other way this happens," said Wilson. "Cuddy. No other way. I mean, this was a bad year, but it's never been good. And it's been ten years." He was counting back to the leg, to Stacy.

Cuddy had known House longer; she felt a little fizz of amusement. When he was twenty-seven, she remembered (seeing him as he had been), House had stolen two canisters of nitrous oxide from the dental school, cracked the seals, and stuffed them in a vent in Taubman Library during finals week. The gas ran out, the building was evacuated, and the exams were rescheduled long before the canisters were discovered.

She'd been warned in advance.

She cracked her first authentic adult smile in a week. "Twenty," she corrected.

Wilson smiled reflexively, and shrugged. "Fifty." He tipped his head; this was a new idea. "I guess what I'm saying is… I don't know. He's my friend, but I don't know. What's broken, when did it happen, how do I fix it." He rotated his coffee cup again. He hadn't taken a sip. "You try to do right. But..." He shook his head, doubtful.

When he spoke again, he was focused on a point just above her head, and it was like he'd memorized the line. "He's in a good place."

"Sure," said Cuddy, briefly closing her eyes. "Fine."

When she opened them, Wilson's attention snapped back to her. "Look, why don't you come with me tonight?"

"He won't see me," she said, too quickly. A distant sense of obligation had compelled her to call Mayfield, twice, only to be informed both times that House was physically fine but refusing visitors. She did not believe either of these things were true.

Wilson said, "He won't see anyone for seven or eight more days. It's policy."

"Oh." She felt something loosen in her chest and adjusted her position on the couch.

"But," said Wilson, "we have to do something about his apartment. Soon."