House lay on his back in bed, shoulders supported by a pair of pillows, thinking about doors. Doors opening. Doors closing. Apertures. Exits. Entrances.

Every now and then he sipped from a glass of single malt. An old Philip Glass CD on eternal repeat played in the den, the minimalist tones drifting into the bedroom. The fifth postcard, the one that shouldn't exist, rested on his stomach, and every now and then he picked it up and looked at it. His mind chased itself in circles every time he did.

He'd started sorting his own mail at the hospital, drawing surprised looks from both Cameron and the mail room crew. It was a good thing he had; this card would've raised a lot of questions, not to mention eyebrows, if anyone had seen it and recognized it for what it was.

Which of course was the question: what was it?

He took another swallow of his drink and picked up the card. The front of the card was divided in two, with a Capitol dome on the left side; the right was subdivided into smaller squares, each containing one photo -- a cowboy boot, spurs, a ten-gallon hat, a field of blue flowers ... he regarded the pictures calmly. He'd been looking at them for the last three hours.

The music grew more insistent, the composer's trademark repetition of evolving piano notes and horns rising. He turned the card over.

A red, white, and blue stamp. The now-familiar blue scribbles, cramped and spidery this time to get all the words in. He read the message again.

House -- folks are really nice here and this is a great town. Presenting that new Child Psych paper tomorrow. Still wish you were here, even though you're not answering my calls or emails. Told you I'm sorry. What more will it take? Heading straight for Japan in a few days so won't be back to Princeton yet. I'm sorry and I really miss you. Love, Wilson.

His eyes were drawn back to the description at the top, in tiny printed script.

Largely rebuilt after the War of Northern Aggression ended in 1863, the capital of Austin is home today to more than 700,000 citizens ...

House tipped the glass for another sip. He hadn't shown this card to Wilson yet. His Wilson. That's how he had to think of him now -- his Wilson, Head of Oncology, because apparently this other Wilson was a psychologist. Or a psychiatrist. Which was what he probably really needed right about now.

He looked at the card again. A door was open somewhere, and a breeze was blowing through. For some reason the thought didn't really frighten him, although it probably should have. He'd read all the science fiction he could get his hands on as a kid; Ray Bradbury, Jack Finney, Edgar Rice Burroughs' Barsoom stories. In his present job he was used to the oddest diagnosis often being the correct one.

Who was this Wilson? Was his first name James too? How many failed marriages had he had -- or had he ever been married? Did he look like his Wilson? The thoughts ran in circles in his head, like a dog chasing its tail. There was no resolution.

He laid the postcard down on his stomach again, written-side up. The stamp was the lone bright spot. A single star, with the legend underneath: Republic of Texas.

tbc