Wilson put away the groceries he'd bought for Cameron and asked her about House's visit. Ten minutes later, he made sure she was comfortable and left the apartment.

House was outside.

He stood with both hands on his cane, pressing all his weight into the handle. In the setting August sun, he squinted, looking straight ahead.

He had waited for Wilson to come downstairs.

"Are you in love with her?" House asked, affectlessly.

"How can you say that?"

House continued to stare.

"We talk," Wilson said. "She knows that getting the chance to say goodbye isn't all it's cracked up to be. And she needs –"

House sighed deeply. "Beat the hell out of me," he said. " Break my bad leg. Break my good leg so I can't walk at all. Break my skull, but don't use Cameron to punish me."

"You think I'm doing this to punish you." Wilson stood in front of House, lips parted, eyes on fire. "You are so fucking narcissistic that you think I'm helping Allison in order to punish you."

He turned and marched towards his car.

"Jimmy," House called after him.

Wilson stopped, still facing the street.

"I'm sorry," House said. "I'm so sorry."

"That will never be enough."

"I should be dead, not Amber."

"Good for you," Wilson sneered.

"I told her that if I could choose between me and her, I would have chosen her."

"You … you told her? House, you need another CAT scan."

"It was an hallucination, after the seizure. Maybe during, I don't know.

Amber and I were on a bus, she was all in white, there were bright lights everywhere, and I told her it wasn't right that a Vicodin-popping selfish cripple should live when a promising young doctor should die. I didn't want to live. She said to me, 'you can't always get what you want,' and walked away."

Wilson's brown eyes fixed on House's expression. "You're not making this up," he said.

"If I'd made it up, there would have been more sex, drugs, and rock n'roll, not white lights and barefoot dying doctors."

Wilson's chest heaved up and down as he stared cross-eyed at the ground and tried to catch his breath. "Did she look … was she afraid?"

"My brain was literally fried."

"I'm just asking."

"No one was 'crossing over'."

"So how did she look in your completely brain-based hallucination?"

"Collected," House said. "The Amber my brain invented was not afraid."

Wilson pressed a hand to the roof of his car and leaned forward. "She shouldn't have been taking amantadine for a type A flu," he said. "It probably wouldn't have done anything for her, anyway."

"She thought she was doing you a favor, picking me up."

"Every part of Amber's death was a horrible freak accident and if it turns out there's a God, I'll break his legs."

House gripped Wilson's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said again, at a loss for any other words.

"I've already forgiven you."

"You're lying."

"I – I know," he said. "But I'm going to forgive you eventually. You need to agree not to screw up Allison's life or her child's, though. And you know the only way you can keep from screwing up someone's life is to stay away. You do that, and I promise not to hold Amber's freak accident against you for the rest of your life."