-4-

"Anticipate"

His first instinct is to hang up. He is too high to be coherent; his tongue feels like it is swathed in cotton wool. He hasn't prepared himself to speak, so he stands with his mouth open, gawping at his computer screen and the letter opener beside it that is shaped like a shark's snout. The shark's one eye is dark, shiny, staring at him, waiting for a coherent thought to take shape.

He almost expects it to blink.

House mutters something. A voicemail should have picked up. It might have supplied him with some basic information and given him the option to leave his name and number after the beep. If the offer was truly asinine House might have left Wilson's number, or if he was feeling truly wicked, he would have recited Cuddy's number in a clear, crisp tone-

"Don't be afraid."

Garrett's reassuring voice jerks House from his reverie.

"We don't bite." The guy at the other end of the phone chuckles. Where is this Garrett, where might he be? Albania, Scotland, Alburquerque?

"You there?" Garrett asks.

"That's a good question."

Garrett chuckles again. It doesn't seem to take much to amuse him. "How can I help you, Mr.-"

"You threw me a challenge."

"A challenge."

"Your ad was extremely confrontational," The thick haze of intoxication has thinned to a wispy cloud cover. 'You are curious'. 'You will call the number'."

"And here you are..."

A niggle of something, annoyance mixed with sparkler sprays of anger, assaults House before he manages to continue. "You've assured me that I will not be sorry."

On the other end of the line Garrett is laughing heartily now. "Well," he says, between a few residual huffs of amusement, "I suppose that remains to be seen."

"I'm interested," Lifting the letter opener by the snout, House squints into the single beady eye. "Give me the scoop."

"We're offering an opportunity for you to be on the cutting edge of something truly unique."

"That's too abstract," House says. "What are you selling? Astral travel? Amway? Scientology? Time shares in Bolivia?"

"None of the above." House hears Garrett's chair squeak. He assumes the man has leaned forward to go for the jugular. Perhaps Garrett's interest is as sharp as his own.

"I'm selling...the ultimate getaway," Garrett breathes, causing the hair on the back of House's neck to stand at attention.

Calm yourself, fool.

Garrett is either a keeper of a great secret or a large economy size jar of horse shit.

House sways against the desk, suddenly disoriented. He mutters something drunken and incoherent into the phone, then remembers the shark snout letter opener is in his other hand and grips it tighter. The black eye presses into his palm as he staggers toward the sofa and his cane and the empty beer bottle.

"My offer is free but it is not open to everyone," Garrett is saying. "You will need to apply and then be accepted by the committee and then-

"Nothing's free, Garrett."

"You'd be surprised what you might gain by showing a little faith."

"You answered the phone kind of late, which means you're a little desperate for customers."

"A special kind of customer. Like I said, we're not looking for just anyone."

"That's what they all say. Good telemarketing strategy. Make your mark feel loved, wanted, indispensable." House stretches out on the sofa. The TV is on mute. Jay Leno silently jabbers, gesticulating with one hand as strolls the width of the stage. He could be a puppet, a dancing, chortling marionette. "You haven't asked my name, Garret. So either you know more about me than your caller ID tells you, you're a great cold reader...or it's something else."

"You have a gift for observation."

"Shucks, I'll bet you give that spiel to all your prospective guinea pigs," House lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Give me the scoop on this rabbit hole you're trying to shove me down."

"We cater to the sort of person who is more likely to consider our offer moments before sleep." Garrett's voice is gentle persuasion and empathy rolled into a shiny silver ball. "Those moments when your mind frees itself of all perfunctory thoughts and considers what is really important. What is it you were never able to accomplish? What sort of regrets plague you without you're even knowing it?"

"Are you sure you're not from Amway?"

"A successful, yet lonely professional," Garrett continues. "A person with more than a few regrets, someone willing to take a rest break from everything. To take a chance..." A glass clinks, a drink is swallowed. "Does this sound like you?"

"What sort of chance?" House lays the letter opener on the coffee table, making sure the shark's snout is facing him. He stretches one hand behind his head and closes his eyes.

"What would you think about filling out an application? I can email it to you now. There will be some basic, explanatory notes attached."

"What do you call this den of thieves you're pimping?"

"It's good to be wary," Garrett says. "It's even better to be curious."

"Answer the question or I go away."

"Very good." It is easy to catch the knowing smirk in Garrett's tone. "I work for a group of investors and technicians who call themselves the committee. Their project is cutting edge, groundbreaking. But they desperately need people like yourself, the intellectually upscale, the curious, those with an open mind, to give this a try in order for it to work."

"Do you offer silver pyramid party hats?" House asks. "All the best new age Scientology, alien worshippers do."

"I understand your skepticism," Garrett says. "But in a few years you and everyone else of your ilk will be clamoring to experience what I am offering you now."

"How do you know my ilk?" House grouses. "Besides my name on your caller ID and a few piddling facts you might pick up about me online-"

"Ahhh, never assume...Doctor...House." Garrett laughs, "You'd be very surprised."

House considers hanging up, making his way to bed. But he knows that the not knowing will cause his sleep to be fitful and dream-filled, in spite of the booze and pills cavorting through his bloodstream.

What if, what if...what have I done?

For some reason, the notion hits him that this is a one time offer, that to refuse now, then call back at a 'normal' hour will get him that voicemail, the generic response he expected in the first place.

With a nonchalance belying a growing, gut churning anticipation, House rattles off his email address. After repeating it back twice, Garrett bids House a jovial 'be seeing you' before clicking off.

A musical ensemble has taken over the Tonight Show stage: two spiky-haired guys with guitars accompany a girl playing bongos. Could be interesting, could be really lame. House's mind is too caught up with Garrett and the strange promise of that phone call to investigate further. His hopeful gaze flicks toward the PC across the room, as though it might begin to jiggle in place, its keys clickety-clacking in wild abandon as Garrett's email flows through the wires.

The apartment is comfortable now, more comfortable than the sweltering sweat box he had been forced to endure over the past week. One air conditioner in the bedroom hadn't cut it. If the committee hadn't obliged him by putting additional units in the living room and this office, he might have said adios to this job and passed the position on to the next worthy candidate.

The committee hadn't let that happen. No surprise there.

The TV in the corner is set to mute. The Tonight Show is halfway over and Garrett figures he hasn't missed much. The guitarists and the bongo player hold no fascination for him and Garrett's not a Leno fan. Marcia put it on, then left the room. Her way of informing him how late it is. Typical.

His attention switches back to the PC on his desk and thoughts of the project and the damned committee. Bitching about expenses and pinching every nickel and dime is what the committee does best. The main office in New Mexico is a sparse, depressing affair with bland white cubicles, wisp thin gray carpet, and the buzz of window fans providing the dreary soundtrack to the work day. It was as they liked it. But they promised that if...when the project went into the black, there would be a load of sweet amenities and incentives in the offing for those smart enough to stick around. For now they needed to cut corners wherever they could, pour every bit of funding into the heart of the Great and Wonderful plan.

Certain exceptions would be made for Garrett; he was hired for his proficiency and expertise. They needed him more than he needed them; at least that's what he tells himself.

September is supposed to be when that cool weather hits the east coast. This is what he was led to believe. But today had been disgustingly humid with spritzes of rain and ominous rolls of thunder from the west.

Perhaps somebody is trying to tell him something.

No matter. He sips his Perrier with lime, eyes the inbox of his mail client and waits for the response which will most likely bring the committee a new citizen. It is kind of beautiful, this anticipation, almost like awaiting a birth. A new life.

Garrett's new prospect is not (as the very observant doctor himself surmised) a total mystery. The moment he rang in, the computer spewed out the basics. Gregory House, forty-eight years old, Head of Diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. The intriguing facts appeared on Garrett's monitor, one by one by one, as the conversation drifted along to its inevitable conclusion.

When Dr. House returns his completed application, his responses will be analyzed by programs the committee's techs have created exclusively for the hunt.

A doctor. They need a doctor in Pleasant Hills.

From the corner of his eye, Garrett sees Jay thanking his guests. The show was history when it aired, since they taped it five or six hours ago. That was then and this, he muses happily as the email he has been waiting for arrives...

This is now.