Chapter 5

Spending all day on the road should have had House sleeping like a log at night. He tried to pull in before nightfall - daylight made it easier to pick out a decent motel. By the time he had checked in and made it to his room, he was usually so exhausted he could barely move.

But at that point, both moving and not moving were equally problematic. His leg didn't like the long periods on the bike one bit, no matter how often he pulled over for a short stop during the day. Once he sat down on his bed in the evening, he often found himself unable to get up again, even though he knew slow movement and a hot shower were what he needed.

So he learned to head for the bathroom the moment after he had dropped off his backpack and motorcycle gear. The rooms he stayed in rarely had a tub, so he took a long, hot shower, hoping to calm down his leg. It worked, but not for long.

By the time he'd gone back to bed, his thigh was screaming at him again. In the absence of any other means to distract himself, he spent his nights listening to the same tracks on his iPod over and over again, alternating with dozing to late night TV. His Vicodin consumption went up; so much so that he started to worry about running out before he got to the end of this trip.

Wilson had been right, he was too old and too damn crippled for this. He should've taken the train.


House wasn't the only one who had trouble sleeping. Back in Seattle, Wilson barely slept at all.

With House gone, the apartment was blissfully quiet after work, nobody played music annoyingly late into the night, and nobody left the TV blaring and fell asleep on the couch.

It was too quiet to sleep.

After a sleepless first night and a bad day at work, he went into House's room the second night and put a random record on the turntable. He ended up sitting down on House's unmade bed to read an old medical journal House had picked up somewhere. When he was finally tired enough to sleep he just pulled the comforter over himself and went to sleep right there.


Saturday afternoon saw House heading towards Billings, Montana, where he would have to make a decision. Should he risk further cold weather or take the longer route and turn south where he was a little less likely to encounter bad weather?

It hadn't occurred to him before but, in a way, he was now making his and Wilson's past journey in reverse. Two years ago, they had taken the smaller roads and usually stopped off in towns away from the Interstate. At the time he'd had no idea he would be going eastward again because he hadn't planned that far ahead.

He hadn't planned at all, full stop. He had acted on impulse, and now it was time to clean up the mess. It was his own mess, and for once he had nobody else to blame.

After eight hours on the road with an aching leg, he decided he might as well flip a coin; heads for the northern route and tails for going south. So he postponed the decision until the next day, hoping that the weather in the morning would point him in the right direction.

The parking lot of his chosen motel looked full, and for a moment House considered continuing for another while, hoping to find a quieter spot for the night. But most places would probably be busy on a Saturday night, so he took the room he was offered. At least the bed looked decent.

After a long, hot shower, he changed into fresh clothes. He would have to do laundry at some stage. But not tonight and not here. He stuffed his old t-shirt on top of all the other unwashed clothes in his backpack and dumped it back on the floor.

A quick look at the mini bar and the selection of takeout flyers by the bed made him question his decision to stop here. Saturday night and all that was on offer was cheap but expensive booze and takeout pizza. Not that he was averse to either. But he'd had pizza twice since leaving Seattle, Chinese once. All meals had been less than impressive, barely even acceptable. He'd have to empty the whole mini bar of dwarf-sized bottles to be even a little buzzed and able to sleep.

So he took two Vicodin, shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his cane and went back out to reception.

"Hey, where can I get some good home-cooked food around here?" he asked the girl behind the desk. Where was the cute redhead who had checked him in less than an hour ago? This girl looked barely old enough to drive.

She looked up from her magazine. "Home-cooked? Like Mac-n-cheese?"

House sighed. "I was thinking more along the lines of a good steak. And a drink."

Some music would be nice too, but he thought it better not to ask. He didn't want to get his hopes up. Considering her age and taste in food, he didn't want to know what she'd suggest.

The girl thought for a while. How hard could this be?

"Come on, you live around here, right?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Okay. Is there a bar around here where they serve food?"

She suddenly smiled. "Yeah! Uncle Bob's."

"Great. Uncle Bob's." Didn't sound like much, but apparently there wasn't much choice. "And where can I find this place?"

According to her directions, it was only 'ten minutes down the road', and he should be able to walk there. After a day of sitting on the motorbike, stretching his legs a little sounded like a good idea. Besides, if he was going to have a couple of drinks, it was best to leave the bike where it was.

The girl's ten minutes were definitely a teenager's ten minutes – on two healthy legs and with a head full of dreams. He had neither, so it took him a good quarter of an hour along the side of the road to finally spot a flashing neon sign advertising Food & Drink – Live Music Sat Nite.

By the time House reached the door, the ten-minute trip had turned into half an hour. His leg had started giving off warning signals about halfway, but he had ignored it. He was here now; he might as well see what was on offer. Maybe he could hitch a ride back later.

No wonder this place hadn't been on the girl's radar. It was dark, no-frills, folk music was playing from a fake-retro jukebox in the corner, and the clientele was less than youthful.

By now, his leg wasn't just giving subtle signals anymore, a whole bunch of emergency flares were going up, so he went straight to a bar stool instead of making his way to one of the tables further back.

He hooked his cane over edge of the bar, took a few deep breaths, rubbed his thigh muscles into submission and considered taking another Vicodin. But he was trying to make the supply last, so he decided to wait until he'd had some food. Maybe a drink would do for now.

He signaled the bartender. "Bourbon, when you're ready."

"On my way out back for supplies, Kate will take care of you in a moment," the elderly man shouted and disappeared.

So much for getting a drink fast.

Kate, when she appeared, turned out to be the pretty redhead who had checked him in at the motel a couple of hours ago. She managed to look even prettier now. The low-cut top, dangly earrings and extra eyeliner definitely had something to do with that.

"Do you work everywhere in this town? If I go for pancakes tomorrow morning, will you be behind the counter at the local diner, too?"

She laughed.

"Maybe. I've been known to cover a shift or two." She put his drink in front of him. "Bob's my uncle. No joke. He really is my uncle. I'm helping out because his regular guy called in sick."

Emergency cover or not, the sight of her behind the bar improved House's mood considerably. Too bad she had a ring on her finger.

He took a sip of his drink, nodded appreciatively and said, "I've been told you serve a good steak. Got a menu?"

"No menu. The only thing on it would be steak. And fries. Veg is whatever's fresh. You can have onion rings if you like."

House passed on the veg but since the likelihood of him sharing his bed with anyone later was minuscule, he opted for a side order of onion rings.

The bourbon on top of the Vicodin he had taken earlier was doing its job – the pain in his leg began to subside into the usual background noise, so he ordered a beer while he waited for his food.

"You here for the music?" asked Kate when she placed the bottle before him.

"Music?"

She pointed over her shoulder.

House craned his neck and saw a black and white poster featuring a sketch of a lap slide guitar, announcing 'For one night only – Matt Davies. Sat 9 pm'.

"Hadn't planned to. Is he any good?" He didn't dare hope. "Poster doesn't say much. Guy could do with better PR."

Kate laughed. "Oh, he's good all right. He doesn't need PR. Word gets around. This place will be packed, trust me."

She made it sound like it was worth hanging around for.

His food took a while to arrive. But when it did come, it was exactly what House had hoped for – a big, juicy steak that took up half the plate, plus a generous portion of fries and crispy onion rings. It was as tasty as it looked, and for the first time in a few days he actually felt something close to content. Now all he needed was for this Matt Davies guy to make some decent music, and he'd go to bed happy.

He drank the last of his beer, signaled Kate to bring him another and considered moving to a table with a more comfortable chair.