"What in the world is this?" House asked, holding up a most unusual object.

Two hours had passed since they'd lost power and he'd had spent much of that time fishing through cabinets and drawers ferreting out the "personal" items Wilson wanted to take home. House, who'd planned a quiet weekend on the couch watching Wilson work, wasn't thrilled with the role reversal. The cramping pain in his leg hadn't really abated; but to admit that to Wilson would be to invite another round of guilt, recriminations, and unwanted advice. So, flashlight in hand, he'd searched the storage area on the side of the cabin walls. He'd emerged with a contraption that only Wilson could explain. And he was really looking forward to that explanation.

"It's an invisible dog."

"A what?" House's eyes flicked from the object in his hands to Wilson on the couch. What he was holding could best be described as a yellow leash stiffened into a permanent arc. Attached on one end was an equally stiffened empty red harness large enough to hold a dog about the size of Steve.

Wilson sighed and leaned his head back onto the cushions. "It's an invisible dog."

House allowed the leash to dangle from his fingers. "I'm sure you're going to explain to me the benefit of a dog that doesn't exist."

"When we were kids, we all wanted a dog. Well, all of us except my parents. Chasing after three boys was enough. The last thing they needed was another living creature that they'd end up taking care of."

"So they bought this instead?" House asked incredulously.

"No, David got it at Hershey Park. I'm not sure if he was trying to guilt-trip my parents or something else. But he insisted on bringing it everywhere, just like a real dog."

"I saw a dog in the pictures."

"Yeah, a few years later my parents finally caved."

House shrugged, chagrined that the story behind the leash wasn't nearly as interesting as he'd hoped. Snatching up the flashlight, he headed back into the storage area, returning a few minutes later with more items.

A pair of child-sized mittens was relegated to the trash as were copies of Southern Living and a handful of ski magazines. With a flourish, House showed the next items to Wilson – nearly a dozen cassette tapes.

"Let's see what we have here." House said, unable to repress the eagerness in his voice as he turned over the first cassette. "Hmm. ABBA. Voulez-Vous. Now there's a goodie."

Wilson groaned. "Trash."

"Oh, come on. Some real classics here. Does Your Mother Know, Kisses of Fire, Chiquitita – what the hell does that mean?"

"Trash, House."

"I don't think that's what it means. Isn't it a banana?" He flipped through a few more cassettes. Beatles White Album – that was okay. Bee Gees – okay for the time. "Love this one. Barry Manilow – The Live Album. The Village People just has to be here somewhere."

This time, Wilson studiously ignored him.

The beeping of a pager shattered the silence. House reached for the one on his belt realizing at virtually the same instant that the noise was coming from the table. Wilson's pager.

Wilson's eyes popped open and he automatically started to rise.

"Stay put, I'll get it," House said, pulling himself up even as Wilson sank back down with a groan.

"Bring it here," Wilson called out softly.

"I can read. It's from your service. Is your number on speed dial?"

"Two."

"So I must be numero uno, huh?" House punched in the number on Wilson's cell. "Who's covering for you?"

"Mendez. Bring me the phone."

House ignored him. "This is Dr. House," he said, when the service answered. "I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Wilson, who's – um – indisposed."

Wilson frowned and made frantic motions with his right hand. "House, give me the phone."

House mad a big show of listening and nodding to the receptionist's every word. "I see," he said when she'd finished. "Well, Mendez is covering this weekend . . . uh huh . . . I'll be sure to tell him. In the meantime, call Mendez."

Wilson was furious. "Which patient?" he asked tightly.

"Mary quite contrary or something like that." How the hell was he supposed to remember the name?

"Marilyn Haverford." Wilson sighed as heavily as his injured ribs would allow. "She having breakthrough pain?"

House nodded.

"Give me the phone."

"Mendez can handle a simple pain med adjustment."

"Not the point. She's my patient. I told her she could call me day or night."

"Doesn't mean you have to answer."

"The phone, House." Wilson was barely able to contain his frustration.

"Tell you what. If you promise to take some deep breaths and answer three questions about your brother, I'll give it to you."

"Jackass."

"Since we don't want you getting pneumonia, the deep breaths are good for you. And hearing about your brother is good for me." House taunted him with the cell phone. "Deal?"

Wilson glared at him for nearly a full minute before reaching out his hand.

House half listened as Wilson spoke first to Mendez and then to his patient. There was talk of dosing regimens, central lines, Fentanyl, Oxycontin, adjustments to the cocktail and a host of other boring oncologic talk.

House took advantage of the calls to refill the icepacks and grab some more Advil. He carefully lifted the quilt, removed the bandages, and placed the packs on Wilson's wrist and knee, causing shivers to ripple through Wilson's body. "Where'd you put your clothes?"

"Loft."

"Done climbing for the day. I'll get you some of mine." He touched the back of his hand to Wilson's forehead. No fever yet, which was good news. "So which do you want to do first – heavy breathing or talk about your brother?"

"Neither."

House dropped heavily onto the sofa across from Wilson. His leg ached, hell his whole body ached. "You prescribed for him. What was it?"

"House!"

House's eyes were cunning. "If you want to wear something other than Jockey shorts all weekend, you'd best start talking."

Wilson glared at him, then turned into the sofa. For a moment, there was silence between them and House began to doubt that Wilson would answer his question.

"Dexedrine," Wilson finally mumbled, turning back but refusing to meet his eyes.

"Amphetamines. Why?"

"Second question?"

"Follow up."

Wilson stared at a point on the fireplace. "I was in residency. David had been drifting for a couple years and finally got this job with a mail order company. Night shift. Needed something to stay awake."

"You fell for that? You're dumber than I thought."

"Don't tell me you never took uppers to get through med school and residency. I did."

"You didn't have a history of drug abuse."

"He told me the marijuana was just a one-time thing."

"And you believed him?''

"I know, it sounds stupid now. But I was on already a doctor while he was barely holding down a minimum-wage job. I just wanted him to succeed at something."

"So what happened? He turn into Dexy's Midnight Runner?"

"You really want to hear this?"

"I really want to watch Debbie Does Dallas, but seeing as there's no electricity, I have to get my kicks somehow."

"I wrote for about six months. Then I went to visit him at the office."

"And there was no office."

"Oh, there was. David just didn't work there. Hadn't worked there in months."

"And had been selling the uppers you'd prescribed."

Wilson shrugged. "Don't know. Probably."

House leaned forward onto his cane. "Time for a deep breath."

"It hurts."

"Pneumonia hurts worse. Breathe."

"You have," Wilson gasped, "a lousy bedside manner."

"I save my charm for when I'm in bed." He watched as Wilson sucked in a gulp of air, straining with the effort. Distraction was often the best medicine. "So, how many times did you try to help him?"

"House, don't want to do this."

"You agreed to three questions. Let's call this number two."

"He came to me for another scrip." Wilson's breaths were shallow, with slight pauses between each sentence. "I told him if he didn't get help, he'd end up in jail, or worse."

"And?"

"He was pissed. Said I'd always been my parent's favorite; that I didn't know what it was like for him. We argued; he took off."

"Then he came back." It wasn't a question.

"Few months later. Needed money."

"And you gave it to him."

"He looked like hell, no job. What else could I do?"

"I bet you even offered to let him stay with you."

Wilson's guilty expression was his answer.

House thought about that for a minute. "It made you feel good, didn't it, helping him?"

Wilson eyes lazily focused on him. "Huh?"

"Your marriage was a wreck, your patients were dying because that's what cancer patients do. Here was someone you could help. James Wilson to the rescue."

"House, we've been through this before."

"But it didn't work, did it?" House pressed on relentlessly. "David needed your money, needed your scrips, but hated the fact that he needed you. And started to hate you for it."

When Wilson again turned away, House knew he was onto something.

"I bet the one thing your brother wanted was for you to say no. Wanted the guy he respected most in the world to tell him that he was a man and could do it by himself. But, instead, you had to help him. And that made him feel impotent, worthless."

"Yeah, House," Wilson said, bitterness evident in his tone, "you know my brother you've never met better than I do."

"I know what it's like to be pitied better than you do."

"So you think I should have just thrown him out into the street?"

"He was already on the street."

"And I was supposed to leave him there, without money, food, a home, hooked on drugs . . . ."

"There are some things you can't solve, people you can't help."

"He was my brother. I had to try."

"You always have to try. The problem is that you can't handle the failure when it doesn't work out."

"I deal with failure every day – like you said, most of my patients die."

"Not the same."

Wilson gave a deep sigh. "No, it's not."

For nearly a minute, there was silence in the room. House eyed Wilson critically. It wasn't nearly as much fun to torment an emotionally and physically drained opponent. And, quite frankly, he wouldn't mind a few minutes of rest himself. He remained silent, watching Wilson's chest rise and fall. Within minutes, the steadiness of his breathing assured House that his friend was asleep.