Cuddy was weighed down not only by the relentless clock but by guilt as they loaded the girls into the van a little while later. She was delighted that her husband had apparently reached a decision on a new stone for Blythe, hopefully aided by Thomas. That stop definitely merited a schedule adjustment. She didn't mind adding it at all. However, in an automatic reflex effort to still be as efficient as possible, she had suggested without thinking that they simply stop by the funeral home, which was roughly in between the hotel and Blythe's house, and delegate the funeral director. That funeral home didn't apparently do stones there themselves, at least didn't have a display outside, but they no doubt had connections in the business. They could accept a drawing and handle ordering it from there.

House had vetoed that immediately and sharply enough that both of his daughters gave him a puzzled look. Only then had Cuddy remembered to plug in the fact that Monday afternoon for his breakdown at the cemetery, the funeral director had been there to witness it. Guilt flooded through her. Of course, he would rather face anybody else in the funerary business today than that man again. She had quickly agreed, too quickly, only adding more emphasis to the awkwardness, and Wilson had borrowed House's laptop to quickly look up some addresses of companies and find the nearest. The adults tried to brush the moment off, but the girls were watching their father again.

Damn it, Cuddy scolded herself as she passed Abby through the van door to Marina, who had just finished buckling up Rachel. Learn to think for a minute before just worrying about being efficient. Jensen and Wilson were already in the very back of the van, Wilson giving a few surreptitious looks around for the missing box of letters. House was in the front seat, staring through the windshield like the parking lot was the most fascinating vista he'd ever seen. Cuddy compulsively made sure all extremities were out of the doorway and then slid the door closed, turning around to nearly run straight into Thomas. For somebody so tall, he could be amazingly unobtrusive. She'd thought he was a few feet farther away and hadn't noticed his approach.

"We'll meet you at the house, Thomas," she said, pulling out the key and giving it to him. "You can go ahead and start taping boxes if you want. We shouldn't be too far behind."

"I'll see you there," he agreed, and then he startled her by giving her a tight hug, initiating it himself that time. His arms were strong, like his son's and yet completely different. No tingles down the spine here, only a feeling of security and odd belonging, like finding a home she hadn't realized she'd been missing. She couldn't help relaxing just a little in spite of herself, and he whispered into her ear. "Relax, Lisa. We all make mistakes. Believe me, I know." The words were so soft and quick that even if anyone else had been standing outside the van, they would have missed them. He released her promptly, stepping back.

"But you didn't mean . . ." she started to protest softly.

"Neither did you." He turned crisply away, ending the discussion. "Bye for now." She watched him start toward his own rental car with that long-legged, easy stride that was so achingly familiar. In the next moment, as soon as she remembered, she added exasperated admiration at how skillfully he could hide his pain. She wouldn't have noticed his foot herself today if she hadn't known already. That quality, too, was familiar.

Rounding the front of the van, she climbed into the driver's seat and reached out silently to give her husband's arm a squeeze of unspoken apology and understanding. In the next moment, their hands collided hard enough that both jumped. He had been reaching toward her without looking, too. The mutual, quickly hidden smile thawed the mood a little, and she started the van and backed out. "All right, monument shop, then the house."

"Thomas?" Rachel asked.

"He'll be there."

"At the house," Marina qualified. "Not at the monument shop. No point in all of us getting out there; you two can move faster alone."

"That's a good idea," Cuddy agreed. Loading the van up was quite a process, and time was precious today. In more ways than one.

Wilson, in the back seat, made another visual sweep and was forced to conclude that the letters simply weren't here. His eyes finished their latest round and bumped straight into Jensen's at the end of the arc. The psychiatrist was looking directly at him with amused understanding. Wilson sighed softly and dutifully looked straight ahead.

"There it is." The monument works was just up ahead, and Cuddy put the blinker on. "We'll be right back, everybody."

Abby came to attention. "M. O." She wiggled in frustration as the van turned in and the car seat restricted her further view of the sign by the road. "I wanna go."

"No." Cuddy turned to smile at her. "We'll be right back, Abby. We don't have time to explore the shop and look at letters."

"No!" Abby repeated, much louder than her mother had said it.

"Shut up, Abby!" Rachel hurled the words across Marina. With a sigh, Cuddy stopped her exit in progress, and her husband reached across to poke her.

"Go on, Lisa. Marina can deal with it fine herself. She's probably heard this routine a few times before."

Indeed, Marina was already speaking softly but firmly, a hand on each girl's arm. Cuddy resumed her exit and walked around the front of the van to join House. As they started toward the door of the shop, she took advance of the moment of relative privacy. "I'm sorry, Greg." He stopped to kiss her, and a little bit more of his tension had released when they walked on. "I wasn't thinking. I should have realized that it still mattered to you, even though it really isn't anything to be ashamed of. He's probably seen worse from other families, even. But I . . ."

"Lisa," House said, reaching for the door.

"Yes?"

"Shut up." She did so with a gentle touch on his arm, and he didn't tighten up or pull away.

He opened the door of the shop. This place had the same air as a funeral home of somber professionalism, and a similarly professionally suited man stood from his desk as they entered. "May I help you?"

"We need to order a monument," Cuddy said.

"What do you think we want? Do people come in here for any other reason?" House added. She elbowed him.

"Ah, yes, a monument. We have several different styles available." He pulled out a thick folder. "If you'd like to sit down, I'll show you some examples, and you can decide which one best expresses your . . ."

He broke off as House pulled out the folded sketch sheet from his wallet and plunked it down in the middle of the folder of examples. "We won't be here long enough to sit down. The one that's circled. I want that on a double stone."

Cuddy leaned over herself, getting a look at the final design for the first time. She smiled.

The man efficiently and smoothly changed gears. "A custom design." He didn't mention the lopsided honors. "Of course, we can have that carved. Plain gray stone? We do have different shades of. . ." House's expression answered. "Plain gray, right. The best choice on the writing and design is inset in granite. We guarantee the legibility of the letters for a hundred years."

"Safe enough, since neither you nor I would be around to deal with the claim if it isn't." House tapped the sheet again. "Kill the sales pitch. I want that stone, and I want to be back out of here in five minutes, tops. Rather, the wife does, and it pays to keep her happy." Underneath the sarcasm was a neon-bright sign: No sympathy. The man read it without difficulty.

"Of course. Just let me fill out an order form in our computer. Name for the order?"

"Gregory House." House fidgeted. His leg didn't like standing, but he wasn't about to sit.

"Thank you. The only other information I need is the cemetery and your address, and we'll take care of everything else." He started to enter the data on the deceased from the sketch, and the computer beeped at him. He clicked over with the mouse to another page, and his eyes widened. "House. I thought that sounded -" He cut himself off that time, looking up at House, then back at the computer.

"You did the original stone for John House?" Cuddy asked.

He nodded, looking from her back to her husband, then buried himself again in the computer. The electronic memory had obviously rebooted his own, and the full media from last summer was now on file. He apparently read the description of the old stone, then looked at the drawing again, comparing. A brief flicker of understanding ran through his eyes, quickly suppressed. Even just from a media perspective, without the additional military details provided by Thomas, the original stone's lie was apparent. He cleared his throat and moused back to the new form, returning to entering data, then popped the sketch page into a scanner before offering it back to House.

"We already have the cemetery and plot details on file. All we need is your address." Cuddy rattled it off. "Thank you. We'll get this made as soon as possible, and we'll notify you when it's in place." The printer whirred and spit out an invoice, and he handed it over. "This will be the total, but you can pay only a 20% deposit now and inspect the final stone yourselves before paying the balance if you wish."

Cuddy picked it up to read over. House, not really caring about the bottom line, was looking toward the van, already itching to be out of here with this business behind him. Cuddy's words pulled his attention back quickly. "A 50% discount?" She stared at the man. The adjustment amounted to $3500 on a $7000 stone.

"Normally, we correct any errors in our previous work for free, but there are expenses with a total remake. That's the best I can do for you."

"Pay it and come on, Lisa," House said gruffly, although he had absorbed every line of the invoice himself by now.

She pulled out a credit card. "Go ahead and put it all on there now. And thank you."

He ran the credit card and gave her a receipt. "My condolences on your mother," he couldn't resist saying. "Thank you, Dr. House."

"Yeah." House turned quickly, hitting the limit, and limped toward the door. Cuddy thanked the man once more and then quickly caught up with her husband, and they exited the shop together. Peace had been restored by now in the van. Once again, their hands reached for each other without looking as soon as they were in their seats, and this time, it was a perfect meeting halfway, not a collision. A gentle squeeze, and Cuddy let go to start the van. "Okay, now on to Blythe's house."

(H/C)

The worker at the thrift store rolled her hamper up to the big donation bin to collect the overnight drop-offs. She dropped the key on her first attempt and swore as she bent to get it, then paused, a gleam of metal at ground level catching her eye. Two shovels, apparently practically new, were tucked alongside the bin on the side away from the busy main road. They were as near underneath it as was possible. She pulled them out and studied them. Good, solid shovels, easily worth a price tag of a few dollars each. They wouldn't fit through the drop flap with the handles, so they had been hidden carefully beside it. She shrugged. You never knew what would be in the bin each morning. Just two mornings ago, they had had a nearly new saw inside, plus a sack with a flashlight. This must be home improvement week. Unruffled, she set the shovels down beside her hamper and unlocked the door of the bin to retrieve the rest of last night's cast-offs. In addition to the usual clothes and a few stuffed animals, the bin today contained a Walmart sack with another flashlight and a completely unused can of black spray paint.

Definitely home improvement week. She tucked it all in the cart, placed the shovels on their handles sideways across the top, and rolled it back toward the store to be sorted.