Foreman imagines a cleanshaven House standing in front of his desk in a crisp white coat. At his nod, the older man trots off to perform an MRI, while Foreman leans back in his chair and tosses the big grey and red ball contemplatively from one hand to the other.

Taub sees himself fitting House to a Procrustean bed, his delicate surgeon's hands expertly trimming away all of the awkward, unsightly bits that make House too big for any room he happens to be in.

Chase has a sudden, startling vision of House on his knees in front of him, silent for once because his mouth is too full to talk. He hardens and flushes and hopes to God that no one else has noticed.

For her part, Masters pictures House locked in a bare, bright, room with blank walls, with absolutely nothing to do but watch his own thoughts tumble feverishly over and over each other. She senses that this much, at least, they have in common.