Two

The eerie silence of the room was a completely different atmosphere from twenty minutes prior. Allison Cameron, biting her lower lip in thought, fiddled with the water bottle in her delicate, pale hand, leaning against the counter nonchalantly, her curly red locks cascading over her shoulders, as if to protect her from unwanted attention. The saving of the middle-aged man hadn't necessarily effected her; she'd seen it all before, so why was she giving such the strange aura of discomfort? Questions like this puzzled in her head, quarrelling and pecking at the variety of different possible answers.

A white mug, nearly spilling its contents of a steaming liquid, it gingerly brushing against the interior brim, was being slowly spun in circles by Eric Foreman. He heaved a sigh, letting go of his drink and pocketing his hands in the white jacket that he wore. Something was bothering him, too, but it wasn't the unanticipated prevailing fate of Manison—it was the Chase couple. Always getting close, they were, but it was in a worried way; like they were cautious, or scared of something that they knew was going to happen, but at what time, no one knew.

At that time, Robert had his arm around his wife Emmanuella, who seemed greatly troubled. Both Cameron and Foreman took note that she was not eating—at all, in fact. If she was, they assumed it was at home, for she did not even dehydrate herself between cases everyday. Robert wasn't himself, either, but he was at least grabbing lunch daily.

House, being his normal and hardly conscientious self, did not take high note on all of these things. As long as Emmy was alive and breathing and doing her job, he was fine.

"Why is it so damn quiet in here?" he muttered, his tone more of a statement rather than a question as he limped into the room, leaning on his cane, going over to the whiteboard.

Foreman sighed, "It's always quiet in here."

"Not always," Robert chimed. "Just…a lot today." Shaking his head, he tightened his grip on his wife's shoulder.

"Ow," Emmanuella remarked, shifting in her seat at the table with him and Foreman. "You trying to break my shoulder or some—"

"Oh, shut up…" whined House, rolling his head on his neck, conveying his annoyance rather well. "You guys are difficult."

Cameron looked to him, her eyes timid, but piercing. "You've been in here for—what?—two minutes, and already you're criticizing us?"

"This is America," he said. "Criticism is like getting a cup of coffee."

Foreman peeked into his cup, contorting his frown.

There was a pause, until House broke the silence once more. "New case," he blurted. "Ten year old Bailey Chapel is being diagnosed with cancer. At least that's what her stuck-up mommy and daddy claim."

"How do they know it's cancer?" asked Robert.

"They don't."

Foreman sighed heavily, shaking his head as Emmy watched everything intently with her vibrant yet desolate chocolate eyes. "Why do people just assume their kid has a disease if they don't know what they're talking about…?" he asked absently.

House replied, "Because this is America."

"Heard you got a new patient," she said as he walked into her office, shutting the wooden, glass-paned doors with his foot. "How is she?"

"Like a slab of wood," he responded, going over to her, staring blankly across, for she was on the opposing side of the desk. "Parents are absolute idiots."

"Well, have you made a diagnosis yet?" she asked.

"Chase is checking her out right now."

The young doctor wrapped the Velcro fabric around the child's arm, keeping a steady beat with squeezing the air pocket as she took the blood pressure. She kept silent the entire time, avoiding any sort of eye contact. The girl stared at the doctor intently, studying each movement carefully, taking in everything like a dry sponge. With her stringy blonde hair, Bailey choked from the bottom of her throat, "You're pretty."

Shooting her eyes up quickly, while undoing the Velcro, Emmanuella said softly, "Thank you. And you're just as pretty, I promise."

Bailey cracked a smirk, trying to play it well, but it failed as the grin quickly faded into the Void. "Where're my parents?" she asked.

"They're outside, honey," she replied, placing the instrument on the table next to the bed, taking her stethoscope out. "Don't worry."

"I wanna see them."

Emmy sighed, still not looking at the child. "You will, once we make an accurate diagnosis."

"No—now."

Emmy stared at the girl, her eyebrows furrowed, in a quite satisfying state of perplexity. Bailey continued.

"I wanna see them now. Please? They're so worried about me."

She sighed, looking back at what she was doing. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you have to stay here." Her tone was gentle; silky and smooth; flowing, and she hoped it would greatly comfort the child.

"Why? I have to see them."

"You will, Bailey. I promise. But we have to finish this if you want to get better."

Bailey exhaled noisily, looking away. "If I get better…" she murmured, mostly to the air next to her rather than the doctor working on her. "You know, I never really knew if something was wrong with me to begin with. But then—I started to get a real funny feeling in my neck, you know? Big pain. It was so tense…like my neck was going to snap in half." She paused, letting Emmy take in all of the information, making hundreds of mental notes. "My parents brought me here. They thought it was a tumor." She looked to Emmy worriedly. "You think it's a tumor?"

Emmy pursed her lips, rounding them, and exhaled. "I don't know," she answered, her tone still gentle. "That's why I can't let you go yet."

Bailey understood with a nod, one nod, and kept her gaze on Emmy's hands; her motherly, tender hands as they worked.