July 23rd

Five minutes in and they've already hit a roadblock in the form of the floor's charge nurse, a middle-aged woman with a formidable bosom and hips jammed into truly hideous floral scrubs a size too small, her dyed curls secured with plenty of gel. Her nametag reads Dolores Cordwainer, L.P.N. Greg has the suspicion that if she thought she could get away with it, she'd wear a white nylon uniform with her nursing school cap perched atop those pin curls.

"Ma'am, we do have permission." Sarah struggles to keep her temper, Greg knows all the signs by now; that quiet, too-even tone in her voice, the way she folds her arms, a slow shift from foot to foot. If he was a nicer person he'd warn their antagonist not to piss off his shrink, but he's not nice, never has been, never will be. Besides, he enjoys fireworks when they're not aimed at him. "Doctor Evans specifically okayed this visit."

"You should have a letter from him saying so," Cordwainer says. Her tone is dismissive.

"I was told we wouldn't need one." Sarah pulls her cell phone out of her purse.

"What are you doing?" The LPN sounds a little alarmed.

"Calling the doctors who run the trial," Sarah says. It's not quite a snappish reply, but close. "I'm presuming if you speak to them and they say it's all right, we can see the patient?"

"Dolores, it's okay. I've been waiting for them." At the sound of the new voice everyone turns. A young guy stands in the hallway, adjustable crutch under his left arm. His dog tags jingle softly as he moves forward. "You must be Doctor House," he says, and extends his hand. Greg makes no move to take it.

"I must be," he says. "You're the idiot who got his right thigh blown off."

Eric Cardenas gives him a long, direct look. "Yeah, that's me." He swings his gaze to Sarah. "Doctor Goldman, right?"

Sarah spares the RN a last look and moves to the younger man. He offers his hand to her and she takes it with a smile. "Please call me Sarah. Nice to meet you, Corporal Cardenas."

"Just Eric, ma'am." His thick black hair is cut in the q-tip style Greg knows all too well. "Come on back to my place."

'My place' consists of a few chairs by the bed to which Eric's been assigned. Greg eases himself down and resists the urge to slouch. This feels all too familiar, if in a somewhat different way than he remembers. It's not a good feeling. Eric sits down opposite him. Greg can see now he's barely more than a kid—the right age to be his son, actually, somewhere around twenty-four, twenty-five. The thought brings back even more unwelcome memories, so he pushes it and them away.

"I understand you have muscle loss in your right thigh too," Eric says. "You wanted to talk to me about the surgery."

"Yeah," Greg says. The younger man sits back as Sarah takes a seat in the corner. He glances at her.

"I'm just an observer," she says. "Everything said here will be kept confidential."

Eric turns his gaze to Greg, an unspoken question in his eyes. Can I trust her? Greg inclines his head slightly.

"Okay," Eric says. "What do you want to know?"

"How did it happen?" It's not like Greg cares, but it'll give him some idea of what kind of injury occurred, how much trauma was inflicted.

"Shrapnel." The flat tone conveys all the listener needs to know of the shock, terror and pain of that moment. "It carved out about seventy percent of my quadriceps." He looks at Greg's right leg. "You?"

"One day I was out playing golf with my girlfriend and and the next thing you know, it just sort of fell off. My quadriceps, not what you're thinking."

Eric folds his arms. "How about you give me an honest answer and I'll keep talking? Otherwise you wasted a trip."

"Everyone's a critic when it comes to humor." Eric doesn't budge. Greg gives a mental sigh. "Muscle infarction. You know what that is?" Eric shakes his head. "A blockage in the artery. In my case there was a clot."

"They can fix that though, right? How'd you lose the muscle?"

It still infuriates him to talk about this even after so many years. "The idiots who examined me thought it was drug-seeking behavior on my part . . . taking . . . taking advantage of a cramp or a strain." He hates telling this to a stranger. "They let it go on for three days. The muscle died and—and had to be removed." He waits for the usual platitudes or commiseration or more questions. Eric is silent for a few moments.

"Your doctors were pendejos," he says finally. "Pardon my language, ma'am."

"Don't worry about it," Sarah says. "It's a good assessment."

"Yeah it is," Greg says. "Anyway. It—it happened a while ago. With any luck some of them are dead now."

"You have a lot of pain with that." It's not a question. "What are your numbers like?"

"Tell me yours," he says. For the first time Eric smiles just a little.

"Before the trial started, base was a four. Bad days, seven or eight. Now . . ." He rubs his thigh. "A two and even that's getting better. Apparently the nerves are growing back. The docs didn't expect that. Sort of a side bonus."

A surge of incredible excitement fills Greg at the news. "Nerve regeneration along with the muscle?"

"Yeah. It's weird, kinda tingly, shooting pains sometimes, you know? But not bad, just—strange."

"What's the procedure like?" Greg finally asks, just as someone behind him says

"Hey big E, how's it going?"

The someone is a woman. She's older, sixty-something, with a thick bob of graying dark auburn hair framing a face that still holds beauty, despite the ravages of time. She's a nurse too, if the scrubs, nametag and stethoscope in her pocket are anything to go by. Her large dark eyes give Greg the once-over, but he's surprised to see speculation there rather than curiosity. She glances at Sarah. A little frown line appears between her brows for a moment.

"Goin' good," Eric says with a grin. His affection for the woman is obvious. "Did two more laps in the pool today."

"That's great!" The woman's approval is unfeigned. "Listen, you have visitors—"

"No, it's okay. They're here about the clinic trial," Eric says. Greg shoots a look at Sarah, who shrugs a bit as if to say it's out of our hands. "This is Doctor Sarah Goldman and Doctor Greg House. Doctors, I'd like you to meet my nurse practitioner Colleen McMurphy."

Nurse practitioner . . . She'll be a pain, her kind always are. Greg settles back in his seat and gives her his best inimical glare. McMurphy returns it with a cool stare of her own, but there's an edge of amusement there too. She glances at the cane beside him, then at his right thigh where his jeans reveal the shapes of the TENS pads, the unit on his belt half-hidden under his jacket. The humor vanishes, replaced by comprehension and a quiet sadness that holds no condescension. He waits for pity or sympathy or even scorn, but they don't appear.

"I'll talk with you later," she says to Eric. "Nice to meet you," she offers a nod to Sarah and slides one past Greg, not quite polite, before she leaves the room.

"Battleax," Greg mutters under his breath.

"You mean McMurphy? No way, man. She's the best." Eric's homely face shines with affection. "She was in the 'nam, in country at the Five and Dime. Two tours that she's told me about, but I bet there were more. She's seen it all, she knows how it is, how hard it can be to come back to the world."

Great. Career military. Greg hunches his shoulders as more unwelcome memories crowd in. "You were gonna tell me about the procedure."

"Yeah, okay. Um, it's pretty simple. They cut a little slit in your thigh and put in this thing, it's like a tiny envelope full of blood, and that's it. You have to take it easy for the first few days for the stuff to get settled and let the incision heal up, but after that they put you on PT, a graduated course." He beams. "I bench-pressed one fifty yesterday. Lost some weight too."

"Side effects?" That's what scares Greg. He's not sure he can handle anything like more pain. Eric thinks about it.

"Sometimes at night . . . you have to get up and move, you know? Can't lie still. It's not bad, just this weird kinda urge to walk or stand up. It doesn't hurt. McMurphy says it's a little like restless leg, only in a good way." He studies Greg. "If you were active before, it helps."

Greg makes a noise like a laugh. "Shouldn't be a problem."

"That's good." Eric sits back a little. "You never told me your numbers."

"Personally I prefer the smaller ones, like zero," Greg says. Eric laughs.

"Yeah, me too." He glances at the clock. "Listen, would you both like to join me for lunch? The chow here's not bad for a hospital."

"How about we take you someplace, our treat?" Sarah says with a smile. "It's a small way to say thanks for allowing us to visit. Do we need to clear your leaving?"

They're on their way out when Greg spots McMurphy with a group of veterans in the common room. Most of them are amputees. They sit at a table and play cards, and carry on like a bunch of teenagers (truth be told, many of them aren't much older than that). She's right in there with them to toss in sarcastic remarks that makes the guys hoot with laughter and respond in kind. She's completely comfortable, just one of the boys; there's a deep respect and affection that's apparent in every action and word, and it goes both ways. She was in 'nam, he thinks, and wonders if she knew his dad.

Later that evening, after they've enjoyed a repast of Chinese takeout, Greg says "Your impressions."

"The General Tso's was perfect." Sarah stretches a little.

"Yeah, because my life revolves around the right balance of chilies versus grenadine and plum sauce."

"It doesn't revolve around your right thigh either," she says quietly.

"The hell with you," he snaps at her, unable to bear the thought of a lecture on how to handle things. She turns to face him. All the good humor is gone now.

"I'm gonna say this straight out. If you make this one act the focus of your happiness, if you make this the meaning of your life, you'll never find what you're looking for."

"You read that in your fortune cookie," he says. "Easy for you and Confucius to say."

"You think so?" she says. There's a little fire in her words now, and her voice is tart. "My life's been nothing but sweetness and light, is that what you believe?"

"So we're comparing scorecards now," he says.

"I'm not trying to one-up you. We could sit here all night and trade stories about the past. What I'm saying is, if you pin all your hopes and belief on one event, you'll be disappointed."

"Belief," he scoffs. "I don't believe anything. I know this procedure has a better than average chance to give me what I want, based on the previous and current trial records."

"What do you want?" Sarah asks quietly.

"I just told you—a functional right leg. All of it working, not bits and pieces."

"And what do you think will happen when you get your functional right leg?"

"You're just trying to harsh my mellow," he gripes. "Cut it out."

"It's a legitimate question and you know it. How about an answer?" Sarah folds her arms and watches him.

"Things will be better," he says finally.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? I'll—I'll have my leg back! My mobility, my . . ." He struggles to find the words.

"I think 'freedom' is the word you're looking for," Sarah says. "How old were you when the blood clot happened?"

"Thirty-five," he says. Bitterness wells up inside at the thought of all those years lost, years when he could have had something like a real life.

"Do you think the days between then and now have been empty, meaningless?"

He sees the trap. "You're telling me I should be grateful anyway." The laugh escapes him, caustic and mocking. "Grateful for endless pain, for becoming an addict? For the people around me using my disability as a leash to make me perform the tricks they like best?"

"I'm not telling you what to feel or think. I'm trying to get you to look at your life as it stands now and accept it as it is, because if you believe getting your leg back means you'll instantly have your old life back, it won't happen." She pauses. "And by the way, you were an addict before you ever took a single Vicodin."

He feels a stab of anxiety. "What the hell are you basing that opinion on?"

"You used physical activity the same way you used drugs later—to distance yourself from your emotional and psychic pain. When you're an addict, the method you by which you express your addiction doesn't really matter. It's the fact that you feel a compulsion to numb yourself out somehow that's the important part of the equation." Sarah sits back. "I tried to use my relationship with Gene that way, in the beginning. If I had him I'd be happy, I'd have what I wanted—someone to love who loved me, who wouldn't ever hurt me the way my family did. It was an understandable desire, and destined to fail."

"Let me guess. Someone showed you the error of your ways and you're so much happier now," he says. Sarah looks at her hands.

"It took Gene walking out and a four-hour session with Prof, a lot of yelling and tears and denial, before I finally saw the truth he offered. I'm attempting to give you the same gift Gordon gave me," she says quietly, and lifts her gaze to his. Her sea-green eyes are somber. "The chronic pain caused by the blood clot and muscle removal was powerful enough to mask the older, deeper pain you've been carrying around for years, but it's still there. You've come a long way in facing those old wounds and I'm proud of you for that, son. Now you need to decide for yourself to let them go. Stop defining yourself by your past and the people who hurt you."

"Why should I when you haven't?" Greg reaches out, grasps her wrist and extends her scarred arm. "You still carry your wounds around." He lets her go, his point made; she lowers her arm to rest on her thigh. She stares down at the ugly ragged gullies, traces one with a fingertip. She's silent for so long he starts to wonder if she'll say anything at all.

"They're just marks on skin," she says finally. "I always thought plastic surgery would be a denial . . . but you know, I think you're right. It's time to have them removed. I don't need them anymore."

"You're just saying that," he says, to see what kind of reaction he'll get. Sarah shakes her head.

"Nope. I'll talk to Will, he can recommend someone. But not until after you're settled into the trial and seeing results." She's silent a moment. Then she says "Thank you."

"For what? Costing you ten grand minimum?"

She gives him a dry look full of affection. "No, you doof. For reminding me that deeds matter, not words."

"Fine, that's great." He pauses. "Asps. Very dangerous. You go first."

That makes her laugh, as he'd intended. "No way. You first, boyo."

"Boyo?" He holds out his hand. "Rock paper scissors, two out of three."

Sarah laughs again. "Nuh uh, that's just tails I win, heads you lose. You go first."

"Chickenshit." He clucks at her. Sarah smacks his hand.

"Okay, okay! Brat!" She extends her fist. "One, two, three . . ."

She wins it; scissors cut paper, rock breaks scissors. "Three out of five," Greg wheedles.

"Nope. I won fair and square, son." She gets to her feet and stretches. "I'll be up for a while. If you want to talk come on over, okay?"

"I hope that's a hidden invitation for smokin' hot sex."

"Only if your name is Gene Goldman." She heads for the door. "I'm sure Roz would be delighted to get a call from you tonight."

Greg rolls his eyes. After she's gone he gets out his cell phone and looks at it for a long time before he puts it away again, takes another cold beer from the mini-fridge and picks up the remote. He wants to talk to Roz, but not right now . . . not just yet. There's a lot of cogitation to be done before he confides in anyone else besides Sarah. She's right, he's at a crossroads, and he's not sure yet which path to choose; the temptation to take the one he knows is strong, but that's brought him to this point in the first place. Time to go another way, perhaps . . . but which one?

When he does finally get a few hours of sleep he dreams, but only tattered fragments remain when he wakes, his mind unrefreshed, his body knotted with anxiety.

They stop off to see Eric once more before they head back home. This time he's in PT, at work on the muscles of his affected leg. "Good morning," he says when he sees them. He's sweaty, and it's obvious the workout causes discomfort to say the least, but there's a joy in Eric's expression that Greg covets with everything in him. "Wanna see my scar?"

It's even worse than Greg's. "They're talking plastic surgeons, but I don't give a shit—beg your pardon ma'am," Eric says. "It's just skin. My girl don't care anyway."

"I bet she's glad you're getting that thigh back," Sarah says, and laughs her sweet musical laugh when Eric blushes.

They leave him with a promise to stay in touch. "Don't worry, Doctor House," Eric says. "You'll be accepted. When you're cleared for alcohol we'll go out for a couple of beers and maybe some hoops on the court."

The drive home is a quiet one. It isn't until they stop for brunch that Greg says "What are you thinking?"

"A better question might be what are you thinking?" Sarah stirs her tea. Greg breathes in the familiar and oddly comforting smell of the restaurant—a mélange of freshly cleaned tabletops, aromatic just-brewed coffee and fried hash browns, mingled in the chill conditioned air—and takes refuge in defense.

"I asked first."

"There's a lot on my mind. I'm not ready to talk about it yet though." Sarah puts some sugar into the tea. "How about you?"

"What you said, mostly." He sips his coffee. "You believe I'll get into the trial."

"Yes." She doesn't jerk him around. "The administrators wouldn't have let you meet Eric if they hadn't planned on inviting you to participate." She sets her spoon aside. "Are you ready for this?"

He has to be honest, though he doesn't want to be. "I don't know. But I have to do it anyway."

Sarah nods. "Okay. We can both work with that."

The rest of the trip is uneventful. When they arrive at home Roz's truck is pulled up in the driveway. As he gets out she emerges from the interior and waits for him, her hand raised to shade her eyes against the harsh sunlight. When he goes to her she kisses him, slow and sweet.

"Glad you're back," she says softly.

"Me too." He strokes her cheek. "Sorry I didn't call last night."

"It's okay. I'd like to hear about how things went." She opens the door a little wider. "Come in where it's cool. It's gonna be a hot one today." When he doesn't follow her into the house she pauses to glance at him, puzzled. "What?"

"Thanks," he says, unable to look at her. After a moment she takes his hand.

"You're welcome," she says, and leads him inside.