Upon completion of a mandatory six-month period, House's ankle monitor was finally removed in late February. He was now free to come and go as he pleased, and he relished in the simple pleasures of a night out with Wilson, a meal in a restaurant, or a long drive without any restrictions on his time or location. It also meant he was now free to go to Boston, if he chose. He'd chewed over this decision for weeks, but still couldn't seem to move forward with it. It wasn't that he really cared about how doing this would affect Andy's life, or even his mother's. He finally had to admit to himself that he was afraid of the finality that getting answers would bring. So long as Andy was just a name to him, with a few facts attached, House could fantasize all he wanted about what the man was really like. He could turn him into a rabble-rousing, sax-playing, brilliant defense attorney, the beloved father of a daughter who thought enough of him to name a child after him. Once he met the man, House knew the reality might not match this idealized vision. He so wanted Andy to be the polar opposite of John that he knew he'd be disappointed if that turned out not to be the case.

House had finally confided to Wilson, not about the details of John's abuse, but about what his mother had revealed about Andy, and what House himself had discovered. Wilson's response was to urge House to make the trip to Boston as soon as the monitor was removed, but even Wilson's encouragement hadn't yet sealed the deal for House. Wilson kept on him though, and House finally convinced himself that knowing was better than not knowing, even if the reality didn't live up to the fantasy. It would gnaw on him forever if he never met the man while he had the chance.

He'd managed to obtain a phone number through the White Pages website, and finally settled on a scenario for a call. He figured he'd try to gauge Andy's general personality first before making a decision about meeting him. One night he finally got up the nerve, pulled out his cell phone and quickly dialed the number before he could let himself chicken out. On his first try the call went to voice-mail, and he hung up before leaving a message. He thought for a moment that maybe this was a sign he should reconsider the whole idea, but later that evening he tried again, and this time the phone was answered, by a gruff-sounding man.

"Hello," Andy said.

"Hi," House said. "Is this Andy MacLaren?"

"Yeah. Who's calling?"

"My name is Gregory Allen, sir, and I was wondering if you had a few moments to talk."

"About what? If you're a telemarketer or doing a survey, I'm hanging up right now."

"No, I'm neither of those. I'm an author, actually, writing a book about the early days of our involvement in Vietnam, and I'm trying to interview a large sampling of vets from that time period."

"Where'd you get my name, and how do you know I was in 'Nam?"

"I'm also involved with Duke's alumni association."

"Oh. I finally stopped getting calls from those people after ten years of refusing to donate to the school. I paid enough for my education. They don't need any more of my money."

"I'm not soliciting for them, Mr. MacLaren. I'd really just like to ask you a few questions about your time in Southeast Asia."

"Well, there's really not much to tell. I went in 1961 and only stayed a year. We were in Saigon, supposedly to train the South Vietnamese army, to avoid turning the 'police action' into a full-scale U.S. war. Obviously that didn't work out so well."

House chuckled under his breath. This guy was certainly blunt, and somewhat of a hoot. He sounded like he had opinions, and wasn't afraid to share them.

"Did you see much action?"

"No, not really. My outfit didn't go very far north or stay long enough to see any of the guerrilla warfare."

"What was the attitude of the South Vietnamese to the U.S. presence at that time? In your experience, I mean."

"We couldn't communicate with them as individuals, of course, so it was hard to tell. It was mostly weapons training, and even most of our commanders didn't speak the language, so it was kind of chaotic. Look, Mr. Allen, was it?"

"Yes."

"I really don't have time right now to get into a long discussion about this."

"That's okay. I would like to follow up with a visit at some point, if you'd be willing. Whenever it's convenient for you."

"I don't know."

"It wouldn't take much of your time, sir. Maybe half an hour."

"Well, I guess so. When could you come?"

"Maybe next weekend – Saturday afternoon. Would that work for you?"

"Okay. I'll give you my address."

"That's okay. I have it from the alumni association."

"Those people really keep track of everyone, don't they? Guess that's how they can afford such a ritzy campus - attempting to milk former students into giving, from the moment they graduate right up until they're ready for the graveyard."

"As I said, sir, I don't represent them, and that's not my intention."

"Yeah, right. Okay. So, next Saturday. Not before 2:00, please."

"That sounds fine to me. See you then, Mr. MacLaren."

"Bye."

House hung up and put down his phone, noticing that his hand was shaking slightly as he did so. That had been pretty intense, just hearing Andy's voice. He'd expected a Boston accent, but the man didn't sound like a native Bostonian. He really had no discernable accent that House could identify. It was his attitude that seemed so familiar, though. A kind of world-weary cynicism, to which House could so easily relate. They seemed to have quite a bit in common, at least as far as that went. He started planning his trip to Boston, with anticipation as well as trepidation.