All right. Deep breath. Let it go.
Focus on what's there.
What was there was a tiny, dim room. The walls were cream cement, the furniture honey oak. No sharp edges. His bed was an inch short, and he had propped his heels on the low frame. He was lying on his back, his eyes half-lidded, posture loose. He leaned on his cocked left arm; his right hand rested on his thigh, which fluttered in time with his heartbeat.
There was a bedside table with a lamp bolted to it—bolted to it, like he might otherwise pick it up and beat someone to death with it. The drawer was empty. Not even a Gideon Bible. Two empty closets. A tall, narrow window that couldn't be opened, a pale green door that could be locked, but wasn't. One desk: a pair of brand-new notebooks, no pens, no chairs. another bedside table, another empty drawer. Another bed.
The bed was not empty. It was occupied by a pile of blankets and a twenty-four year old schizophrenic named William Wick. But since the guy had yet to fart, snore, move or speak, all he was to House was a lump and a mat of dark hair, pressed against the far wall.
By his count, he'd been in this hospital about eight days. In this room, about ten hours.
He'd been in worse places. That Thai hostel. The dorms at—
But we're not thinking about that.
That was thought-stopping. Proven therapeutic technique. It totally worked. There were books and everything.
—the dorms at Michigan. That desk.
A small sound, between a whimper and a growl, escaped his throat. He was gripping his leg so tightly that the pain seemed to flow from his hand. He'd never been more grateful for it. It was an anchor. It was certain. His heart was crawling up his esophagus. If he didn't move, he was going to be violently sick.
He sat up. He kept weight off his right side until the last possible second. He braced himself, then eased into a normal sitting position. The pain in his leg jammed through the entire chromatic scale. He waited for it to reach the high note, see what he was dealing with, but it didn't really reach a high note. It hammered back down into the low chords, back up into an atonal screech, worse than before. If it would just hold still, he could get a grip on it. That was possible. He remembered doing it, in another life.
Not tonight. This was as good as it was going to get.
He slipped his feet into flip-flops, fumbling with the right. Good shoes. They had sneaker soles. Stuck to the floor like suction cups. His cane was in the little gap between the bed and the table. He grabbed it without looking. It settled in his palm. He planted the cane on the floor. Moved his feet until they were a shoulder-width apart and slightly forward. Looked up at the gray drop ceiling. Down at the shellacked wood floor. He took a few deep breaths, drawing in some spare oxygen, delaying.
Moment of truth.
His face drenched—tears, sweat or both—but he did not actually scream when he stood up, did not fall down. Excellent. He checked his right leg again. Yep, still there. Hadn't stepped on a landmine or been attacked with an axe. Just felt that way. He hobbled up and down the small room for a while. When that failed to achieve anything, he stopped at the desk. He rested his fists side-by-side on the table and leaned forward till his knuckles took some of his body weight.
The movement brought his eyes close to the tall, narrow window. This building was probably as old as Cuddy's desk, and the only things left from the original plans were the exterior, maybe the floors, and these windows. He could see the street, grass, parts of the stone façade. A small tree. The night sky looked clear. Probably mid-seventies. But there was something about it that made him glad he was indoors, couple of feet of stone between him and that. If someone told him it was bad out there, a storm brewing, an earthquake, a war, he would have believed it.
Back home, if he was having one of these nights, he'd retreat to Wilson's place, maybe the office. But right now there was no home, no Wilson, no work. He was, without question, alone and unarmed against the dark.
Behind him, an animal rustling.
With the dry voice of a reptile, William Wick rasped, "You're bleeding."