August 9th

"You look fine," Sarah says for the third time that morning. "Stop messing with your jacket, you'll undo all my hard work steaming out the wrinkles." She smoothes a lapel with careful fingers and gives him a steady look. "Don't worry about Doctor Wirth. She can be a dragon, but she won't breathe fire unless you really deserve it."

Greg resists the childish urge to grab her hand and hold on tight. After last week's ordeal (a three-hour interrogation with the medical board's attorney that could have been the very definition of the term 'grueling'), this interview will be relatively simple. Still, he can feel the insidious pull of his innate loathing for and distrust of authority figures of any kind. He also knows to give in to the urge to rebel is to create a disaster of vast proportions for himself and Sarah, but it may not be possible for him to resist, because he hasn't decided if he's actually going to—resist, that is. It would be easier at least to just give up, lie down and let the current take him where it will . . . straight into trouble, as usual.

"Doctor House?" A receptionist appears. She holds a neon-yellow transparent clipboard in one hand, with a polite smile that doesn't reach her eyes plastered in place. She shouldn't wear bright red lipstick, Greg thinks apropos of nothing. "Come with me please."

He follows the woman into an office, already tense in anticipation of the nightmare to come. The receptionist indicates a chair, gives him a distant nod and disappears. Greg remains on his feet as he looks around the room. It's smaller than he thought it would be; there is a distinct lack of anything like prestige or cachet within this simple space. Only one spot in the entire office is clear of piles—a table upon which rests a pristine twelve-cup coffeemaker, a bag of Blue Bottle Coffee Company's Three Africans blend, a glass pint mason jar filled with teaspoons, and a fully-loaded mug tree. Under the table is a cube fridge. For real cream and emergency supplies, Greg thinks in momentary amusement. It's a shrine to survival. I do like her priorities.

"Good morning."

He turns to find an older woman in the doorway. She is short, dumpy and hopelessly grey-haired, dressed in a shapeless lab coat over a black henley tee and olive chinos, her feet clad in battered sneaks. A stethoscope is tucked in her right front coat pocket; there are files wedged under her left arm. "Doctor House," she says, and comes in without a handshake or a 'please be seated'. There are no attempts to establish dominance because none are needed. She slaps the files on her desk and flattens several nests of paperwork in the process. "Coffee?"

It's an excellent brew; darker than dark, a bit harsh at first taste but fragrant and silky on further acquaintance, with strong notes of molasses and rich brown sugar on the finish. He sips it with cautious enjoyment, grateful for the heat that seeps through the thick walls of the mug to warm his numb fingers.

"From your records it's more than plain that you have exceptional observational skills even for a world-class diagnostician, but it still bears pointing out that we are not much more than a glorified clinic. And not all that glorified, when you come down to it." Doctor Wirth watches him with keen blue eyes. "Anything truly interesting usually gets sent to the real hospitals in the region. It sucks, but that's how it is." She sets down her mug. "Can you handle two hundred and forty hours of sore throats, chicken pox and prescribing prenatal vitamins?"

He'd known from the start he'd be on what amounted to clinic duty if he accepts this setup. A large part of him wants to mess with his new boss, challenge her, offer spurious bargains-everything he would have done to Cuddy without a second thought. "No chance I could just be called in for the good stuff, then."

"Well, we do get the occasional farm accident or car crash. And every now and then someone ends up with food poisoning or kicks off from a massive coronary." Her expression doesn't change, but he senses her amusement. "At that rate you'd get your hours in around ten years from now."

When it comes down to it, I have no choice. "Figured as much. It sucks, but that's how it is." I'll find a way to mess with her later. A little observation is in order first, to discover weaknesses and foibles.

"Well said." She flashes him a quick grin, and just for a moment there's wicked mischief in her eyes. He wonders what she was like when she was younger. A heller, no doubt. "Let's take a look around."

Clinic-like this place may be, but he is a little surprised to see some fairly up-to-date equipment and a well-stocked dispensary. The ER-slash-examination area is the definition of utilitarian, with three bays and one crash cart. Still, everything is set up for easy use, with stations designed to make critical care flow smoothly. The nurses eye him as he walks around. He eyes them back. There's not a looker in the bunch, just youngish women with hairstyles they haven't changed since high school, dressed in scrubs with the usual pastels or flower prints.

There's only one ward. It consists of twenty beds and a nurse's station, with an enclosed area near the desk set up for emergency ICU or clean-room needs, and the opposite end turned into a little pediatric section. At the moment the ward is empty. He suspects that's the case some of the time, but not all of it. The bulletin board behind the station has the usual memos and official postings alongside photos of weddings, graduations and newborns or toddlers. It's exactly what he'd expect from a small community where the nurses are often part of the patient's extended or even immediate family.

"I'd love to have my own lab," Doctor Wirth says, "but it's not practical. I could never justify the expense for the few patients we see. It took forever to get our own in-house laundry."

The employee breakroom consists of a small kitchen and lounge as well as some lockers and a two-seater bathroom. There's a fridge, a microwave above an apartment-sized range and another coffeemaker. He's somewhat relieved to see a long couch, several shabby recliners and even a smallish flat-screen tv and DVD player next to an older stereo. A bookcase holds paperbacks and a stack of magazines in a wide array of topics, and several swimsuit issues of Sports Illustrated.

"Set up for extended stays during snowstorms," Doctor Wirth says with a slight smile. "If you want to make friends for life, bring in new movies. We've watched the current collection way too many times over the last couple of years. New books are good too." She glances at her watch. "Let's go check out your office."

It's barely a broom closet, but it does have the basic amenities-desk, chair, even a computer. It's a far, far cry from his roost at PPTH, but then it also doesn't have glass walls. Frankly he hadn't even thought he'd get an office.

"You probably won't spend a lot of time here but feel free to make it yours," Wirth says. She doesn't enter after he steps in to check out the desk; two people together in this small space legally constitutes sexual intercourse, no doubt. "You can watch anything you like except porn." At his glance she laughs, a pleasant sound. It reminds him a bit of Sarah. "I'm wise to the hardwired pathways of the male mind. Speaking of which, let's go see Doctor Singh. He'll be your supervisor."

The person in question sits on what amounts to the back step, a bottle of Coke in hand. He is in his mid-forties, average height and weight, possessed of no looks in particular and a receding hairline that makes Greg wince inwardly in sympathy for a fellow hair-loss sufferer. His dark eyes hold a gleam of sly good humor, so much like Kutner's expression it causes a little stab of sorrow, quickly pushed down and ignored.

"Sandesh Singh. Thank god," the man says when Wirth introduces them, "fresh blood at long last." He has a slight accent that lends his words a crispness not often heard in American conversation. "Has Diane shown you all the horrors that await?"

"Some," Greg says. "Haven't seen any patients though, so presumably the worst is yet to come."

Singh shakes his head. "And you're still here. You must be completely mental. That means we'll get along fairly well." He stuffs the now-empty Coke bottle into his coat pocket. "All right then, guess I'll see you around the schoolyard. Time to put peanut butter on the tongue depressors. It's the only way to shut up screaming kids. Who cares what their tonsils look like?" It's obvious this guy has the potential to be a kindred spirit. Maybe things won't be as dire as they first appeared.

They find their way back to Wirth's office, where Greg signs papers and gets an employee ID. "You can start tomorrow if you want to." Doctor Wirth stacks the forms and places them in a folder, which goes atop a pile propped up by the computer monitor. "I don't really care what you wear as long as it's clean and covers armpits, genitals, buttocks and feet. I've been given to understand you don't like lab coats."

Greg keeps an impassive expression while he wonders who would have divulged this bit of information. "I have my reasons."

She shrugs. "Fine by me, but I will warn you that we get runs of sick kids in here fairly regularly, emphasis on 'runs'. About the fourth time you've had to change because someone's puked, peed or pooped on you and we're out of clean scrubs, you'll wish you had something to cover your street clothes. I leave it up to you, though."

When they arrive back in the waiting area Sarah casts her magazine aside and gets to her feet. "Everything still on?"

"Unfortunately for this place, yes," Greg says. Wirth gives him a wry look.

"I think you have that backwards," she says. "Anyway, let me know when you want to begin and we'll start the clock."

"Monday," he says before he loses his courage. "It's as good a day as any."

"Ah." Wirth looks surprised and then pleased. "Okay then. See you on the sixteenth. Start time's eight-thirty a.m., so we can get you oriented and Singh can show you the ropes. The two of you get to argue over who works swing and on-call for graveyard. Just let me know what you decide." And with that the interview is over.

"We're going out," Sarah says on the way home. "I want a ride on the bike in exchange for supper at Lou's."

"Celebrating . . ." Greg isn't sure he's up for it. "No point in doing that. I'm stuck with a job now."

'Okay, then let's say I need a night off from my own cooking, and you're going to take me."

"Gene won't approve." It's a weak riposte but his heart isn't in it.

"He won't care. But we can call him and ask, if you want." Sarah gives him a smile. "Come on. You done good, as they say back home. Let's whoop it up a little."

And so, as long shadows have nearly completed their advance across the lawn, Greg steps out of the house. He hands Sarah his extra helmet and climbs aboard the 'blade. It's a good evening for a ride; the sky is clear, the air still warm. Sarah settles in behind him and wraps her arms around his middle, then gives him a gentle hug.

"Hey!" he growls at her, though a smile tugs at his mouth. "Cut it out."

"Sorry," she says without a shred of apology in her words. He chuckles and starts up the engine, and they are off.

It's more than obvious that Sarah is familiar with back-seat protocol; she leans into turns and doesn't lay her weight on him, nor does she hold on too tightly or try to talk. On the highway he pushes the speed just to see what she'll do. She laughs and gives him a thumbs-up, so he takes the long way, swoops around curves and hams it up for her enjoyment, and his as well.

It's almost dark by the time they arrive in the village. The restaurant is busy but not crowded; they find a booth and settle in. When their waitress shows up however, it's something of a shock. "Welcome to Lou's," Roz says with a smile. She has on a coral-pink cap-sleeve blouse and black jeans under her apron; her hair is a little damp, which makes the ends curl wildly, and she smells faintly of lavender and flowers. The soft color of the blouse gives her brown skin a glow that almost hides the faint shadows under her eyes. "What can I get for you?"

"You're here instead of at home," Greg says. He narrows his gaze. "You're an electrician, not a carhop."

"The kid called in sick so Poppi needed some help," Roz says. She looks at him, then at Sarah, brows raised. "What's up?"

"We're celebrating," Sarah says before Greg can speak. "The good doctor here begins work at the center next Monday."

Roz's eyes widen a little in surprise, and then she offers a genuine smile. "Hey, that's great! Congratulations!" She puts her order pad back in her apron pocket. "This calls for something special."

"You'll let me do you on the table," Greg says, and ignores Sarah's snort.

"Not that special," Roz says without hesitation. "Not yet, anyway." She bends down and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before he even realizes what she's up to. Her fingers brush the nape of his neck, tender and intimate, a quick little caress that sends a shiver right through him. "Trust me, I'll bring you something worth your while."

"Hmm," Sarah says as Roz disappears into the back. "She's got it bad for you, son."

"Not bad enough," he says, a bit preoccupied with the echoes of her touch. "Otherwise she would have taken me up on my offer."

"She just did," Sarah says. "That was definitely first base. Considering she's in a public place and looking at another eight hours or so on her feet, I'd say you're a very lucky man."

A few minutes later Roz returns with a pitcher and two glasses. "Compliments of the kitchen. Your appetizers will be up shortly." She pours something into each glass, then heads into the kitchen. Greg peers into the depths of his drink.

"There appears to be ice in here," he says. "And mint. But mojitos aren't yellow. Someone peed in the mix."

"It's lemonade," Sarah says. "Homemade, not the powdered stuff."

He takes a cautious sip and anticipates sourness. Instead he gets pure clear lemon, tart-sweet, with a good hit of peppermint in the aftertaste. It's cool, refreshing and utterly delicious.

After a short wait, Roz returns loaded with goodies. "Onion rings extra dark and mozzarella sticks with Poppi's marinara." She sets plates in front of them along with silverware and real linen napkins, then serves the platters. As she puts down the onion rings she hesitates. "I'm—I'm up for a five-minute break when the main course comes out . . ." She doesn't look at either one of them.

"Don't sit on the back step reading Playgirl, keep us company instead," Greg says. Roz nods and glances at him. She's pleased, it's obvious.

"Okay," she says, and heads off to another table with new arrivals to take their drinks order. Greg munches an onion ring, savoring the just-short-of-burnt caramelized flavor.

"Is it really that difficult to believe she wants to spend time with you?" Sarah puts some of the marinara on her plate and dips a mozzarella stick in it. "Or maybe you don't really believe you want to spend time with her."

"See, that's the trouble with getting inside people's heads for a living," Greg says. "You start thinking it's a full-time occupation."

Sarah laughs. "Yes, all right. But it's still worth considering." At his glare she takes a large bite out of the stick. Her expression promises a discussion later on, when he won't have any excuses handy. He makes a mental note to avoid her for the next few days—shouldn't be too hard if he can hide out till Monday, since he'll spend quite a few hours at work once he gets started. So weird to remember he's employed now, even if it's to remove the suspension and fulfill requirements for the New York board. It hasn't been all that long since he left Princeton-Plainsboro either.

Things have changed, he thinks. He's not sure how he feels about that. Some part of him welcomes the move forward. Another part of him is wary of too many changes too fast.

Ten minutes later Roz brings out a pizza that is truly magnificent—mozzarella and pecorino romano cheeses mixed with chopped fresh basil, oregano and rosemary under Parma ham, green peppers, red onions and black olives, along with extra-virgin olive oil and more marinara and garlic butter on the side as a dip for the crusts. She takes away their plates and silverware to be replaced with clean sets, refreshes their drinks, serves them both a slice of pizza, and slides into the other side of the booth. Out of the corner of his eye Greg sees Lou emerge from the kitchen and go to a table, order pad in hand. "You should have more people working here," he says. "This place is too busy for just one waitress."

"Poppi has two, but Marge's daughter is sick and the kid . . . he's lazy." She shrugs. "It happens sometimes."

"And you're just expected to pick up the slack." For some reason that annoys Greg. "You've already worked a full day for that slave driver you call a boss."

"Poppi doesn't expect me to do anything. I came in because he needed help."

"So Lou could use another server," Sarah says. Roz shrugs again and steals an onion ring off the platter.

"Then he could fire the kid, who's worse than useless," she says, and folds up the ring to fit the whole thing into her mouth. "Mmmm . . ."

"Thief," Greg says. For answer Roz chews slowly, her attitude one of total challenge. Her dark green eyes gleam with humor and something else he can't place.

"Want it back?" she says with her mouth full.

"Knock it off, you two," Sarah says. "Poppi's coming over." Greg automatically sits up straight before he can stop himself; Roz swallows her food. Sarah chuckles. "Hey Lou," she says, her tone cheerful. She ignores Greg's sidelong glare.

"Doctor Goldman." Lou nods. "Doctor House. I understand congratulations are in order."

"Thanks. We haven't let Gene know yet but he should get the divorce papers any day now," Greg says. Roz rolls her eyes as Lou shakes his head.

"You'll keep Doctor Wirth amused," he says. "I'd like to invite you and Roz to my house for dinner next week." He glances at Sarah. "You are also welcome, Doctor Goldman."

"Thanks, but I don't think Greg and Roz need a chaperone." Sarah gives Lou a warm smile. "Your offer is appreciated, though."

Greg feels his stomach clench. The food he's eating loses all its taste. He'd known this moment was in the works, but still he's unprepared for the fear it conjures up. "Checking out your granddaughter's older, crippled and newly-employed boyfriend," he says, and looks just past Lou's shoulder, unable to meet his gaze. "Very wise."

"Yes," Lou says, unruffled by Greg's provocative tone. "It's a chance for you to check me out as well, you know. Two-way street." He glances at the door as a family walks in. "I'll let Roz get the details. Good luck with the new job." He moves to the kitchen door as Roz slides out of the booth and stands next to Greg.

"Enjoy, and maybe we'll talk later, if you like." This time when she bends to give him a kiss he's ready. He lingers over it, so that when they part Roz's eyes shine, her lips are slightly swollen and there's a blush on her cheeks. He watches her head for one of her tables, a little strut in her walk, and allows himself a small smile.

"Don't play with her," Sarah says quietly. "She has enough to deal with, living here."

"I won't break her heart," Greg watches her. "She's not that emotionally involved."

"Isn't she?" It's a simple question but it hits him hard and deep.

"No, she isn't." He says it with such conviction he almost believes it.

Later though, as he lies alone in his comfortable bed, he knows his statement for the untruth it is. Sarah is right. That knowledge scares him, because maybe . . . just maybe . . . he does feel some kind of emotion for Roz, something more than mere lust.

Don't, he tells himself. You're too old, you're scarred in too many ways, you're a joke. She deserves someone far better than you. Besides, you'll probably leave someday and she won't come with you, her life is here. It's pointless to let yourself feel anything for her.

After a while he gives up and goes into the living room to play his guitar, where he tries not to think beyond the music and the warm summer night.