Cameron woke up the next morning to the sound of her cell phone buzzing against the hard surface of the bedside table. She reached over and flipped the phone open.

"Yes?"

"Good morning." It was Wilson. "I have … news."

Despite her soreness, she sat up quickly in bed, momentarily glancing at the diagnostician sleeping soundly next to her, wondering for half a second if he might have been lying when he suggested that her presence in his hospital room on that day six months earlier had saved his life. "News," Cameron repeated.

"It's not necessarily promising, but it's a possibility. There is a pediatric oncologist in Austin, Texas who mistakenly operated on a six-week old infant who had been diagnosed with genetic congenital pulmonary hernia."

"I don't understand," Cameron said. "That's at least four malpractice suits, I'd think."

"The original diagnosis was neoplastic syndrome due to a cancerous tumor. After a second MRI, they corrected the diagnosis to irreparable pulmonary hernia. The oncologist insisted he was right, though, and somehow got permission to operate anyway and removed some of the tissue from the interior of the infant's lungs. After removing the herniated tissue, the lungs began to develop normally and thanks to this guy's mistake, there's a couple in Texas with a healthy four-year-old boy right now."

"That doesn't sound right."

"I know. The second diagnosis must have also been wrong. The baby in this case had a repairable hernia."

House began to toss and turn. "What's going on?" he groaned.

"Wilson's telling me about the worst neonatologists in the history of medicine."

"No, no, no," Wilson said frantically. "I mean, the oncologist who operated was absolutely wrong. But I spoke to our neonatology team, and they have an idea."

"Hold on." Cameron pressed the speakerphone button and laid her phone on top of the comforter. "Go."

"They could try doing what the Idiot Oncologist did and remove tissue from her lungs."

"From her lungs that don't have enough tissue?" House asked. He was still lying on his back with his eyes closed.

"The doctors in Austin got really lucky," Wilson explained. "We were thinking that if this happens to be a very rare case of nongenetic hernia that can't be distinguished from the genetic form –"

"Our doctors can tell the difference," House said.

"House, just listen. If for whatever reason the source of the hernia is deep in the lungs, we couldn't have seen it on the MRI."

Cameron's eyes widened. "So you're saying there's a chance that Amber's lungs are lying to us about why they're herniated?"

"A very small chance, I want you to be aware of that," Wilson said. "The neonatologists told me it's something like one-eighth of a percent."

House finally sat up. He rubbed his leg and for a second Cameron wondered what it must have been like to wake up in pain every morning. "You want us to risk this surgery because there's a one-eighth-of-one-percent chance that she doesn't have what her MRI told us she has."

"And because there's a one hundred percent chance she'll die of respiratory failure without the surgery," Wilson said. "But we want you to know you've got the approval of the Dean of Medicine on this procedure."

House clapped his hands. "Cuddy's approval! It must be Christmas."

"Thank you, James," Cameron said into the phone. "We'll make a decision by this afternoon. I'll head back to the hospital once I'm out of the shower."

She turned off the phone. "You shouldn't take more Percocet on an empty stomach," House said, somewhat ironically reaching for his Vicodin. "I'll get bagels. You wait for me before you get in the shower."

Cameron raised an eyebrow.

"I mean in case you fall."

She was genuinely surprised at the thoughtfulness House was capable of, but knew he was only thoughtful when he wanted to be, which wasn't enough to convince her not to move to North Dakota.

Now, he stood while she sat on the bed. "What do you think?" she asked.

"My name's not on the birth certificate. It's up to you."

"What would you tell me if you were her doctor, not her father, and I was a receptionist from Trenton?"

"I'd say it makes no sense not to sign off on the surgery. I'd say, 'your kid's going to die in three months anyway, so you're not taking a risk here.' Then even if you didn't give permission, I'd find a way to operate anyway, because the receptionist from Trenton obviously doesn't understand how probability works. And the baby would be my patient, so I'd have to save her."