(Someone curses in some language he half-understands; there is a stench of gas and fried electronics, and blood. Sirens in the distance, a babble of voices . . . He tries to get out and agony floods through his side into his head-)

Greg awakes on a gasp of remembered pain. His hand goes to his thigh, an automatic gesture he regrets as soon as he makes it, because he finds not even a butchered quadriceps now, only a stump and then nothing. He tries to draw a deep breath and waits for the monitor alarms to go off, but they remain silent. Then he remembers he's been moved out of ICU, a good sign actually but he's still not used to the change. After a few moments he is able to find the remote, turn on the tv and concentrate on moving images as a way to push the memory back into obscurity.

Two hours later during shift change, his benefactor shows up again—unexpected, since he works in ICU. Greg flips through the channels when a game unit is plunked down on the adjustable table, next to his untouched jello. He picks it up, examines it.

"Tetris." Dreads pauses until Greg glances at him in reluctant inquiry. "NPR posted a good article last week. Twenty minutes of Tetris can help inhibit PTSD symptoms after traumatic events."

"You don't say." Greg sets the unit on the table. "Very scientifical of you."

Dreads gives him an amused look. "Better than boredom." And with that he leaves.

When Wilson comes in later, Greg is on level one twenty. "Need a phone."

"Hello to you too." Wilson dumps a plastic shopping bag on the table. "There you go. I bought a contract for you too. Where'd you get the game?"

"None of your business." Greg coughs. It hurts, but not quite as much as before. He sets the unit aside and concentrates on getting breath in and out.

"Okay, calm down. You need a drink."

"Bourbon, no ginger ale."

"No bourbon, yes ginger ale." Wilson is clearly amused under the admonishing tone. "You're still in the hospital, House. Even you have to take things one step at a time."

We'll see about that. Greg opens the bag.

The phone has been set up for him—his contact list has been added. He can just imagine Wilson's disapproval at the womens names. He'd never deleted his favorite hookers, pretty much because he'd just forgotten about it. Now it's a good thing he didn't, he'll no doubt need their services again once he's out . . . He pushes the thought away; the anger and pain that loom behind it are too much right now. He'll face those old companions later on, when he has no choice.

"I'm surprised your partner in crime hasn't attempted to burgle her way into my room," he says when Wilson returns. The other man sets the cup of ginger ale on the table. His gaze is averted.

"She's . . . Dana's gone. She went back to Philly."

Now it's hard to breathe again, and it has nothing to do with his damaged ribs. Somehow he hadn't expected her to just walk out. Stacy had stayed for weeks . . . He must show some sign of surprise, because now Wilson eyes him with what seems to be astonishment.

"You really expected her to wait for you?" He sounds incredulous. "Jesus, House. You think she had your leg amputated—you kicked her out!"

There's nothing he can say to that, so he chooses to sidestep. He picks up his new phone and pages through the contacts. "Couple numbers are missing."

Wilson doesn't answer right away. "Wow, how remiss of me not to extract every single piece of information from something that looks like a Solo cup after an all-night frat party."

That brings up something else he's wanted to ask for a while now, but hasn't had the strength or the opportunity. "Must have been a bad accident."

"You're lucky to be alive." His friend's tone is quiet now, serious. "The cabbie barely made it out in time to pull you free." He hesitates. "The guy who t-boned the cab . . . he's in jail. He blew a pretty high number on the breathalyzer. You should think about a lawsuit."

Greg nods, still absorbed in the contact list. "Need a lawyer."

"Working on it." Wilson settles back in the chair a bit. "Any word on when you get out?"

"Nope."

"House." Wilson waits until he looks up. "You can talk to Dana, you know. Tell her you were upset at finding out about the surgery—"

"It was an amputation." He looks down at the phone. "Don't sanitize this mess. Call it what it is."

"Yeah, okay. I'll make a mental note for future conversations I hope we never have." Wilson leans forward. "Call her. She'll understand."

It's the last thing he'll ever do. "Need a charger."

"It's in the damn bag." Greg can feel the other man's glare without having to see it. "I'm off to get some breakfast."

"Bring back some hash browns and a sausage biscuit with cheese."

While Wilson is in the cafeteria in a no doubt vain attempt to find something decent to eat, Greg thinks about what he's said. By now he's calmed down enough to know Wilson's right, Gardener didn't have anything to do with the decision to amputate. But somehow he knows there's more to this and he can't call her, not yet. He still has questions to ask, facts to ascertain. Until then, he'll remain silent on that front.

But you trust her, his rational core says. Don't you?

Well, that is the question, isn't it? And not one he wants to answer, now or ever.

He digs out the charger and looks around for an outlet. The only one he can see is about five feet from the bed. He could hit the call button and get a nurse to plug it in for him or wait for Wilson to return, but he wants the charger now, not in half an hour.

With care he untangles his IV line from the sheet and blanket, pulls himself upright and turns a bit. There's some dizziness, but it subsides. Now his major problem is standing. This is the first time he has to face it in this way. It's the start of a new life, one he never wanted but when the fuck has random chance ever cared about personal wishes?

Greg puts the charger on the stand, braces himself, and swings his remaining leg over the side of the bed. He's fortunate the rail's already down, no doubt an act of forgetfulness by some nurse. It feels weird to sit up, and to be off balance; he feels like he'll tip over if he leans too far to the right. He waits for the second wave of vertigo and pain to pass, puts his foot on the floor, and inch by inch, eases upright. Fuck, this is strange! As he stands there, he finds he faces a bathroom door. It's close enough for him to make in a couple of hops if he holds onto things along the way . . .

It takes longer than he'd like, and he's expended his little store of energy when he arrives, but now he has what he wants—a mirror. In astonishment he examines his features. The bruises and superficial cuts have long since healed, but there's a sizeable red scar on his forehead, from just above his eyebrow well into what's left of his hairline. He stares at it, intrigued. No one had said anything about a head wound. Another addition to the collection.

"House! What the hell—" Wilson charges in from the doorway. Before Greg knows it he's helped back in bed. "You could have waited, what's wrong with you!"

I'm missing more than a leg, he thinks before exhaustion pulls him down.