As he drove away form Mayfield Wilson felt worried and relieved at the same time. He was relieved that House was acknowledging his feelings, and worried that House's guilt for Amber's death was only the tip of the iceberg. He hoped that fear wouldn't drive House further into himself, or, worse, make him leave Mayfield.

House returned to his room and was startled to see Kutner sitting on the desk with his feet in the chair. Surely he should be rid of the hallucinations by now?

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Kutner asked.

House scowled at him and said nothing.

"Seriously, don't you feel better?"

House ignored Kutner, laid on the bed and closed his eyes. He drifted sleepily under the effects of the methadone.

"He knew it wasn't your fault that I died," Amber whispered softly in his ear. "You didn't. Goodbye, House."

He opened his eyes and she was not there. Maybe it was just a dream. He looked across the room at the desk and Kutner was not there.

He sat up and looked around the room. He missed his own space, his piano, his guitars, his TV, his bed... And, he missed Wilson, and Cuddy. He even missed his team. OK, maybe he was spending too much time alone in that room. He decided to go out to the common area.

Selene leaned against the wall near the TV room doorway. She watched House walk towards the common area. She was curious about his limp. It was easy for people to tell what had happened to her. The thick, twisted, pink ribbon of skin down the side of her neck screamed burn victim. She had tried to grow her hair long in an attempt to hide the scar, but she couldn't stand the feeling of her hair brushing against it. She reached up and touched her scar without thinking just as House looked in her direction. She looked away quickly.

House noticed the pale-skinned, pale-eyed young woman watching him. He often caught people staring. He watched her reach up with her right hand and touch the hypertrophic scar on her neck. It was then that he noticed that she didn't, couldn't, straighten her left arm. The scar on her neck started just below her left ear and continued down her neck, disappearing into her shirt collar. He deduced that in addition to the hypertrophic scar on her neck she had a contracture scar on her arm, which limited its mobility.

He wondered if she was in rehab for treatment of addiction to pain medication. She certainly would have been prescribed some heavy duty drugs for treating those burns. He consciously stopped himself from considering her further. He was not there to diagnose other patients, he thought. Besides, the girl obviously thought he was staring out of morbid curiosity rather than medical interest.

"Group is in five minutes," Zophia said loudly to no one in particular as she started to rearrange the furniture in the common area.

House turned when Zophia spoke and when he looked back towards the TV room Selene was no longer there. He decided to join the other residents who were filing towards the circle of chairs.

House once again took the seat opposite the therapist's. Predictably the other patients sat in the same arrangement they had for the previous group session. Selene reappeared, taking the same seat she had before. House watched Selene position her left arm carefully so as not to bring attention to its lack of natural movement.

As he had previously Auden, the curly-haired kid, sat next to Selene. He again wore flip-flop sandals. This time House noticed scars between the kid's toes. It appeared that Auden had repeatedly injected something, House guessed Heroin, into the same area on his feet. Repeated use of the same site leads to skin damage, possible infection and scarring. Rather brazen of the kid to wear flip-flops when doing so revealed such clear evidence of his drug use.

House continued to look around the room. He observed that the apparent average age of the residents was probably somewhere around 30. He guessed that the oldest resident, a man with long grey hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, was probably around 60. He thought a skinny kid with braces on his teeth who wore well-worn Chuck Taylors and patched Levis was probably the youngest, 18 or 19.

Coughlin arrived with a folder in her hands, and took her seat. "Today we are going to talk about the types and symptoms of mental, emotional and social illness," she said.

House ignored the psychiatrist. He watched the other patients. Most of them were watching her and appeared to listen intently. One man, who appeared to be having difficulty paying attention, made strange facial expressions and licking motions with his tongue. House was certain the licking was Tardive Dyskinesia probably caused by drugs used to treat some kind of mental illness, possibly schizophrenia.

"I'm not crazy!" the man shouted as leapt out of his chair and stood with his fists clenched. With wildly angry eyes and the dyskinetic tongue-flicking House thought the guy certainly did not look sane.

"Jay," Coughlin said calmly, "we are talking about the symptoms of mental, emotional and social illness. All people experience symptoms of mental, emotional and/or social illness at some time in their lives. If experiencing these symptoms makes a person crazy then we are all crazy."

This seemed to defuse Jay's anger. He blushed, looked at Coughlin apologetically and sat down.

Coughlin resumed her educational speech about the symptoms of mental illness. This time House, holding his cane loosely by the curved handle, listened as she gave extremely cursory definitions of thought disorders and personality disorders. Though he would never admit it, House was paying attention because he knew that the hallucinations and the delusions were not caused by the Vicodin alone. His greatest fear was that he was losing his mind to some form of severe mental illness.

One sentence from her speech stood out in his mind: "Severe depression can cause hallucinations and delusions."

At the end of the session House hurried back to his room. He was no longer interested in observing his fellow residents. He wanted a moment alone to consider what Coughlin had said and whether or not he believed that it was possible.

House closed the door and tossed his cane onto the bed. He limped into the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His usual scruffy facial hair was no longer merely stubble; it had grown into an unkempt grey beard. His color was still off, not ashen as it had been in the throes of withdrawal, but not healthy looking either. His eyes were still the same brilliant blue, but beneath them the dark circles belied the debt of sleeplessness that was still not repaid.

In his reflection Kutner appeared standing behind him. "Depression can cause physical pain to be more severe."

"My leg doesn't hurt, because I'm depressed," House spat in an angry tone.

"I didn't say that the pain was caused entirely by depression. I implied that the pain might be worsened by depression," Kutner responded.

"So, you think that's what this is?" House leaned towards the mirror squinting at Kutner.

"I think it's worth exploring. I mean, it's possible that you might have less pain if you took an anti-depressant."

"It's also possible that I might have a less functional brain on an anti-depressant."

Kutner shook his head. "House, it doesn't work that way and you know it. It's just like any other chemical imbalance. If you were a diabetic would you forgo insulin?"

House turned the cold water on, let it run into this cupped hands, closed his eyes and splashed it on his face. When he opened his eyes Kutner was gone.