"Yes, Mr Trinh, you can call again when you need. Just remember that you have to make an appointment first. No, there's nothing to pay, but you're welcome to make a donation to help defray costs, so that our foundation can help more cancer sufferers and their families and friends. I'll make sure you're sent details so you can make it tax-deductible. Say hi to your wife for me."

I put down the headset and check the time; I've been accumulating delays, so that instead of noon it's almost twelve thirty. It's hard to keep to a fixed time-frame when people have pressing, life-and-death question, and even harder to do so on the phone, but it's basically a part of my job and I know how to do it.

I just wish I had more time for it. The feedback, three weeks into my new "job", is overwhelmingly positive; I would like to volunteer for longer hours, but House insists that I shouldn't, that I need to have a real job eventually. We compromised, and I now work four hours per day, in the morning, unpaid for the moment since I'm still on paid leave from PPTH.

I haven't heard from them again, but House called HR for me and confirmed that they're planning to kick me out as soon as they legally can. I did get a very friendly phone call from the Dean, and he mentioned he hoped I could go back - and the next sentence was about my retirement party and an assistantship in my name as a goodbye present.

I find my cane in its usual place and head out for my daily walk. With my backpack, I can easily carry a small amount of groceries while my hands are free to hold the cane: daily fresh sourdough bread is a luxury I'm getting used to, and the bakery is near the library, with its collection of audiobooks and Braille texts.

It's weird what one can get used to. We wake up Monday to Friday at six thirty together; House prepares breakfast while I'm in the bathroom, since his own morning care was so much faster than mine even while I could see. He then drives my car to Trenton, while I sit at my laptop and keep in touch with literature or, occasionally, with my ex colleagues until it's time for my telephone counseling stint.

When House comes back we go out together; we walk if the weather allows or we just go sit somewhere and chat. Sometimes we stay home, especially when House has online consulting to do - nothing big so far.

We cook dinner together, or I prepare something simple while House consults, or House cooks while I use the bike. And we spend every evening together, usually listening to music but sometimes going out to bars, often those that offer musical entertainment or stand-up comedy. Recently I discovered the existence of DVDs with an extra descriptive soundtrack for the sight-impaired, so we can even enjoy some classical movie together.

And every night we share a bed. In the evening the warmth of his body and the quiet sound of his page-turning are enough to lull me in an easy, drug-free sleep; in case of nightmares, or when the alarm clock interrupts a dream to bring me from light to darkness, House's arms and mouth provide the best possible comfort.

I have therapy once a week, too, and so does he - in the same office and at the same time, so we can go together. I don't know what I find weirder, that I got used to this new life so fast or (I blush when admitting this to myself, and have never told House) that I'm happy with it.

It's a wonderful fall Sunday afternoon. House and I woke up late, had sex, went for a very satisfactory brunch and we're finishing a walk through our favorite woods.

We walk close to each other, as we always did, and occasionally stop for a chaste kiss and a hug. We do not hide while doing so, and I often hear comments of passers-by; they're usually neutral or, when they notice the canes, openly sympathetic. I feel very lucky living in an overeducated, liberal corner of New Jersey.

We sit at a table with benches in the winter sun, and I try to squint; I do notice that direct sunlight has a particular brilliance, or maybe it's the effect of the warmth on my face fighting with a light breeze. I pull out of my backpack a tablet of expensive European dark chocolate, a surprise from one of my solo shopping trips, and I let House have most of them; I'm the one doing regular exercise, but he's still thinner than me.

When we're done eating, a hand covers my own. I expect a caress, but all I get is a cellphone. My cellphone.

"Time to call home, E.T. Speed dial 9, in case you forgot."

Not only have I not come out to my parents about House and I being a couple, I still haven't told them that my blindness is permanent. I found all sorts of ridiculous excuses, like my father's (very routine) post-heart attack care, but now Thanksgiving is approaching.

"Later, when we're home? I think I'm catching a cold."

"I'm a doctor, Wilson. Call already. They have a right to know, and waiting won't make it easier."

I listen to the free signal, half-hoping they won't pick up so that I can just leave some greetings. No such luck.

"Hello, James. High time you called. Still vacationing?"

"Mom, I'm on sick leave."

"Same difference. Your dad is also supposed to be recovering from the infarction, and he's more active than I've seen him in the last two years. When do you start working again?"

I bite my tongue so as not to mention that this is probably due to his being bored out of his wits by her harassing him about his medication.

"Mom, I… it's not clear I'll get my job again."

"What?"

"Mom, I told you I couldn't see, right?"

"Yes, something about your lazy eye. Did they find you the right glasses?"

"No, mom. There are no right glasses. My lazy eye will never see more than shadows, and the retina of the other is gone." I pull a deep breath. "I'm blind, mom."

I've agreed with House that it's better not to mention the experimental program yet, also because I've still been unable to find braille data about its success rate.

There's silence at the end of the line, and when she speaks again her voice tone is completely different. It's the one she uses when discussing Danny.

"James, wait. I'll call your dad, and put him on speakerphone. Then you can repeat what you just said, since I must have misunderstood."

In the end it wasn't even so bad. They didn't say it was my fault; probably they feel guilty, although it's definitely not their fault either. My mom no longer pressed me to visit; instead, she insisted that she and dad come here to see me. They expected to stay with me at the condo, and I had to admit I moved out and I don't have a guest bedroom anymore; I'm sure they won't like my new place, so much more modest than the old one. We finally agreed that they'll call again after they discuss the trip with my father's cardiologist.

I didn't say I don't live alone. I did mention that "some friends" were helping me cope. I wait for House to complain and be angry but he doesn't. He just makes me notice the sun is setting and it's getting chilly, and when we stand up to go home and I grasp for my cane he hugs me tight before pressing it into my hand.