"What happened to your bike?"
Foreman's question disturbed the restful state House had fallen into, and the latter sat up a little straighter, attempting to blink his vision clear. "Uh, I lost it a long time ago."
"The only thing you ever lost is your mind. You don't misplace anything."
"I wasn't implying I forgot where I parked it," House said mysteriously.
"Man, can't we just have a grownup conversation for once?"
House brought himself into a fully upright position and one hand moved absently to cover the longest jagged ridge on his arm. "I was in a motorcycle accident," he finally admitted. "Just before Wilson passed. It was the most mangled thing I'd ever seen. I got through the door and he'd been bedridden for weeks, but he got up and told me to be more careful. Didn't ask if I was okay, he just said he didn't want to have to kick my ass." House snorted, his smile cold as he shook his head. "Didn't make it to supper."
"You ever see him, after that?"
"I don't hallucinate off Vicodin," House said, and threw a handful of pills down his throat. He firmly set the empty bottle on the dashboard. He cringed as he made the unpleasant decision to tell the truth. "I saw Kutner though. And Amber, and Stacy, and Cameron. Thirteen. The guy who shot me."
Foreman was quiet, absorbing the revelation. "So you want to hallucinate?"
House's laugh was bitter and empty. "Who else will visit me in prison?"
When Foreman had shot Remy in the forehead, he only felt anxiety and the fleeting impulse to commit suicide. He didn't know why, but with House, he just felt sad.
"I'll visit you..." Foreman paused, and tentatively added, "And if you were open to it, I'm sure the others would, too."
"That's not part of the deal," House growled.
"It's your call, House."
"I don't want them there," he responded. But as he sat there, he realized that it wasn't true. House looked at Foreman. "No, bring them."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I...I miss them."
Foreman looked at him and gave a nod of encouragement. "Good."
That evening, they pulled over to switch seats; to save his leg, House crawled over the cup holders into the driver's seat. The conversation continued incessantly; Foreman brought House up to speed on some of the patients at the hospital, including the little girl with cancer who had managed to obtain a kiss from Chase. She was all growed up with her cancer in remission, and House found himself resenting her for outliving Wilson.
Foreman looked at his fuel gauge. "Tank's less than half," he announced.
"No problem." House changed lanes to make the left turn, pulling under the self-serve. Foreman quickly counted his money and hopped out of the car, starting to fill up the tank. As House sat there waiting, movement in the rearview mirror made him lookâand quickly swivel in his seat. Remy clasped her hands together and smiled at him.
"Miss me already, House?"
"You're not here." House turned doggedly back to face the wheel.
"Of course I am. Don't you remember?"
"I'm seeing things."
"As I recall, you wanted to hallucinate. Don't push me away now." Remy met his eyes in the mirror.
House spun again to face her. "I wanted to see Wilson."
He turned back and found himself looking at Wilson in the mirror.
"Do you like what you see now?" Wilson asked, and kept staring at him as House slowly turned in his seat; unable to take his eyes from the ghost. "I'm sorry I couldn't wait anymore. It's not your fault you broke your promise. It's mine."
House almost smiled, impressed by his imagination. "What the hell is in those pills?"
"It's not the pills, House. It's you."
House stared at Wilson, wondering which of them was right and wondering why it mattered. It didn't, really. All that mattered, all that should matter, was that Wilson was there...
"Did you die happy?" House found himself asking.
Wilson tilted his head. "I died?"
House turned back in his seat to look over the wheel. His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, but he only saw a seat. Turning his head, he saw his vision of Remy now sitting in the passenger seat; her dead body still resting in the back. He looked on in amazement, from the hallucination to the real Remy.
Her ghost smiled at him. "Do you really think nobody will visit you, House?"
"Why would they?" he asked. "It's been nine years. They probably don't care about me anymore, maybe they never did. They shouldn't. I'm just a sad, crazy old man."
"Sadness can be cured. And crazy is contagious," Remy purred, moving closer to him. "You really think a sane person could have put up with you all those years?"
"I'm not that bad, am I?"
"Well, let's recap. You ripped a man open with a surgical machine, strangled a patient, harassed Dr. Adams, punched Dr. Chase. What else have you done?"
House shook his head in denial. "I don't want to think about it."
"That's because you know you belong in prison. You are a good man, aren't you?" she asked, and stared at him with her wide eyes, smiling again. "Maybe you should think about the policeman coming your way."
House looked quickly to his left side, at the cop who was walking towards the car. He initially had no interest, walking towards his own vehicle; but upon seeing House's face, he stopped cold; recognition passing through his eyes. House's hand reached for his pocket like it had a mind of its own.
"Don't call Foreman; just drive," Remy goaded. "Come on. It'll be fun."
House raised the phone to his ear. "I don't take orders from a ghost."
"House?" Foreman's voice came through. "What's wrong?"
"Babe is in the city," House muttered, and hung up. As he waited anxiously for the cop to approach the vehicle, Foreman came walking out of the gas station, walked quickly past the cop, and got in the car.
"I'm surprised you waited for me," Foreman said, as he threw on his buckle. House stomped on the gas pedal and pulled out of the station, tires squealing. As House looked over his shoulder, he shrewdly observed that all the ghosts were gone. But just for that moment.
The clock on the dashboard read 9:04 when Foreman pulled into a parking lot that was unfortunately very familiar to House. "I hear the steaks are good here. You hungry?"
"No," House snarled.
"Well, you haven't eaten since this morning."
"I'm fine. Let's just get this over with."
Foreman frowned at him in concern. "You sure?"
"Yes. Couple more hours and I'll be in prison. They'll feed me there. Really well. Surprisingly well. Why do you think people want to go to prison? They want a better diet."
Foreman scoffed. "My brother tells me it's worse than hospital food."
House looked down, rubbing at the gaping hole where his leg muscle should be. "I really...I can't go inside."
"What's going on with you?"
House looked up and spoke in a deliberately melodramatic voice. "I've been uncivilized so long!"
"Yeah, since the fifties."
"Since the sixties!" House said loudly. He looked at the deserted backseat. "I have to get more Vicodin from the trunk, anyway."
"Suit yourself," Foreman said, and let himself out of the car. Crossing the parking lot, he looked over his shoulder at House, who appeared to be talking to himself as he got out of the car and walked around it to the trunk. Shaking his head, Foreman pushed open the door, holding it open for a little old lady before he walked up to the counter. "Hamburger and fries, please," he said and looked around the quiet restaurant. "Near closing time, or am I going to get food poisoning?"
"Closing," the waitress told him. "Trust me, the only people who get sick are the ones who have the Big One." She motioned to the Wall of Pain. Looking over at it, Foreman's cordial smile faded when he saw Wilson's face looking back at him.