The Wilson ski cabin looked exactly as House had pictured it – a small, wooden A-frame set into the side of the mountain. Wilson parked at the end of the long gravel driveway. "Leave everything in the car for now," he said. "I'll unload it later."

"How much of this land is yours?" House pulled himself out of the car and immediately swallowed a gulp of air that was crisp, cold and slightly damp – refreshing in an outdoorsy sort of way.

"Couple acres."

House gently stretched his leg before following Wilson up a half-dozen steps onto a planked porch that spanned the width of the cabin. Wilson unlocked the door, hinges creaking slightly as it opened. He fumbled for the light switch and, a moment later, the room was bathed in a soft yellow glow.

The inside layout was predictable. The main room had a wood-burning fireplace surrounded by a well-worn sofa and loveseat, covered in a blue and wine checked pattern, and a couple of bright orange and yellow vinyl beanbag chairs clearly left over from the disco decade. House didn't fancy himself a decorator, but the color contrast left him slightly nauseous. He followed Wilson past the small kitchen down a short hallway to the bedroom – standard-sized, with a quilt-covered queen bed, bulky oak dresser and small nightstand.

"You can sleep in here. There's another bedroom in the loft with bunks; I'll take that." Wilson pointed to another door across the hallway. "Just the one bath." They returned to the main room. "There's storage in the basement and along both sides of this room that I need to go through." Wilson nodded toward the sofa. "Sit down. Relax while I bring in the stuff."

House started to protest, at least suggest that he could help, even if he had no intention of doing so. But several hours cooped up in the car had taken its toll, and Wilson would no doubt give him endless grief for even trying to carry supplies, especially up and down the outside stairs. He pulled out the Vicodin bottle and popped two pills into his mouth, one to compensate for the car ride and the other just because it hurt.

He spotted the 20-inch TV in the corner and turned it on, flipping through the channels. It didn't take long, given that only one channel had decent reception. As Wilson had promised – no cable, no VCR, no TiVo. Nearby were well-worn board games – Monopoly, Life, Trivial Pursuit, Parcheesi, Yatzee – and, stacked next to them, decks of cards, poker chips, Chinese checkers, and even a cribbage board. Who still played cribbage?

House returned to the sofa, tapping his fingers on the armrest. What the hell was he going to do all weekend – other than torment Wilson and "talk?" And he had no intention of doing that. "Are we staying for a weekend" he called out as Wilson carted in bags of supplies, "or a month?"

"I just wanted to make sure we had something to eat other than three-year-old tomato soup." A few minutes later, Wilson dropped a bag on the floor and closed the door behind him. "That's it," he said. "I'll put this away and fix dinner."

Giving up on the lone channel of TV, House wandered over to the built-in oak bookcases surrounding the mantle. His attention was immediately drawn to a framed picture of two boys on skis, with the cabin as backdrop. One was obviously a young Wilson and it didn't take much detective work to figure that the other was his brother, Mark. There were additional photos of Wilson's parents, Wilson, Mark, and even a dog. However, none of Wilson's other brother – the one who was missing, no longer in his life.

"Are you up for chicken parmiagiana?" Wilson called from the kitchen.

"Great." Anything Wilson cooked had to be good.

Wilson had stopped in his tracks, dishtowel in hand, eyes taking in House and the pictures.

"Love the family photos," House said, eyebrows arching toward the ceiling. "All the Wilsons minus one."

Wilson's lips formed the tight line that signaled his anger. "Leave it alone, House."

House almost made a snide comment in return. Almost. Something in Wilson's demeanor told him that, while this weekend might provide an opportunity to explore some of the more interesting aspects of Wilson's life, he had to choose his moments carefully and this probably wasn't one of them. "I'm okay with peanut butter sandwiches, if you don't want to cook."

"Two problems," Wilson said, his body immediately relaxing. "I've eaten more peanut butter sandwiches these past couple of months than I can count and I didn't bring any peanut butter."

"How can you come to a cabin without peanut butter? Tell me you at least brought stuff for S'mores."

"Absolutely. Though, we're not exactly cooking over the campfire."

"There's a fireplace."

"Along with a microwave and central heat."

"Doesn't that ruin the whole concept of lounging naked in front of the fireplace covered in a fur rug?"

"We don't have a fur rug either," Wilson deadpanned.

"Might have helped with Julie."

Later, after they'd eaten and Wilson had cleared the dishes, he produced a cardboard box and a handful of dishtowels and began packing away the photos.

"You took down the pictures of your brother," House said quietly.

"There are plenty of pictures of my brother," Wilson countered, showing House the one he was wrapping – a picture of Mark on skis holding up a trophy.

"Your other brother."

"I don't have another brother." He paused for a moment. "And how do you know it wasn't my parents who took the pictures?"

"Parents never give up hope."

The sky had darkened and raindrops spattered against the roof. Wilson grabbed the final framed photo and added it to the box. "My parents still have this delusion that some day David will magically appear at their door, happy and healthy with a great job and maybe even a wife and kids and tell them it was all a bad dream."

"And you think it's better for them to believe he's lying in some flophouse or in Potter's Field?"

"It's more likely to be true," Wilson responded bitterly.

"Is he older or younger?"

"Two years younger; the middle son. I don't want to talk about this."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Then why bring me here? You knew I'd see these pictures."

Wilson gave the exaggerated sigh that always signaled his frustration. "House! You're not a psychiatrist, and I'm not having some impromptu therapy session with you."

"You said it was personal."

"What?"

"The reason you went to the psychiatrist. Was it about your missing brother? Is that why you're getting rid of the pictures, the mementos, the cabin? Because you know he's not coming back?"

"You're crazy."

"I'm right," House challenged.

"No, you're not. I don't know any more about my brother today than I did last week, last month, last year or the last ten years."

"So it's personal means it's not about your brother."

"It's personal means it's none of your business."

No, House thought to himself. It's personal meant he simply had yet to figure it out.