Wilson had no interest in exploring New Orleans once the conference ended for the day. He headed back to his room, exhausted both mentally and physically from the experience. Closing the door behind him, Wilson leaned back against it and sighed, relishing the silence. After a moment he pushed off the door, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up carefully before sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes. He loosened his tie and glanced at the phone to see if the message light was flashing. It wasn't. Sighing again, he pulled the tie over his head and tossed it toward the chair. He was beyond the point of caring when the tie landed on the floor instead.

Wilson lay back and contemplated what was left of his marriage, trying to figure out where they had gone wrong. He and Sam had only been married a little over a year. They'd met and fallen in love while in medical school and impulsively decided to get married during that brief break before beginning their respective residencies. Almost immediately they began to fight over trivial things and the fact that they hardly ever saw each other only added to the strain. Those few hours during the week that they were actually together in their cramped apartment Wilson spent trying to placate Sam's occasionally volatile temper. He hated that part of himself, always wanting to smooth things over, to avoid conflict with those closest to him. He considered calling the apartment to see if Sam had gotten home from work, but couldn't bear the thought of hearing the answering machine message again. Too agitated to think about food or much of anything else, he lay there trying to process the sorry state of his life until he fell into a troubled sleep.

The moment the conference ended for the day, House was out the door of the convention center and headed for the nearest bar that was not located at the hotel. He ducked into a darkened doorway that opened into an even darker space. About a dozen patrons sat along the well-worn bar drinking their drinks on stools that looked as though they'd been there since the day the doors first opened. House took up residence on one of them and ordered a double bourbon from the wizened old bartender. Taking a long pull from the glass, he took a moment to survey the room, pleased to see that no one else from the conference had discovered the place. A small stage with an upright piano, a couple of battered guitars, and several traditional zydeco instruments took up the far end of the establishment, fronted by an equally small dance floor. The stage lights were on low, a signal that the musicians were between sets.

House's gaze was instinctively drawn to the piano. It looked as though it had been rooted to that spot forever, almost as if the bar had been built around it. His mind drifted as he imagined the players whose hands had touched those keys over the years. He drained his glass and signaled the bartender for another. When the barman came down to refill House's glass, House asked him how long it would be until the next set. The bartender looked over at the stage and shrugged.

"Depends on who gets up there to play. We don't hold much on formality here."

House thought he had died and gone to heaven, whatever that was. He wanted nothing more than to take his drink and spend the rest of the evening at that piano, losing himself in the music much like he did at home. The barman recognized the look of longing on the man's face. He had seen it countless times over the years.

"Y'all play?"

House shrugged. "I do alright."

"We only have one rule: If it ain't jazz, blues, or zydeco it don't belong here. Think y'all can handle it?"

"I guess we'll see, won't we?"

House took his drink and made his way over to the piano. He sat down on the ancient bench and took a long pull of the bourbon, setting the glass at the end of the keyboard, where years of water rings told their own story about the piano players who'd been there before him. He laid his hands on the keys and began to play, quickly losing himself in the resonant sounds as the combination of music and alcohol began to ease his mind.

Heads turned toward the stage with the opening notes. These regulars had seen musicians come and go, and could tell within the first few bars whether the musician was worth his or her mettle. They watched the man at the piano as he filled the room with a sultry blues piece that suited the temperature outside. The bartender smiled to himself as he worked his way down the bar checking on his customers, most of whom wanted to know who the guy at the piano was. The barman shook his head as he freshened drinks, signaling to the patrons that he had no idea who the man was.

House was oblivious to it all, content to drink and just let the day's stresses of having to act like a responsible human being disappear with each note he played. There was no applause as the last notes of the piece drifted away, but every patron's head was nodding in approval when he looked up from the keyboard. House raised his glass in acknowledgement and drained the contents, then made his way back to sit at the bar. The barman immediately came down and poured another double into House's glass.

"This round's on me. What do they call you?"

"House."

"Well House, you have a much better feel for the music than some people who've sat at that keyboard." The barman offered his hand. "Bill. This is my bar, and y'all are welcome to stay as long as you like."

House shook Bill's hand, acknowledging his words with a nod and took another drink. As the bourbon burned its way down to his empty stomach, it occurred to House that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. When Bill turned to make another pass down the bar, House stopped him to ask if there was someplace close by where he might get some decent food. Bill directed him to a diner just up the block that had been in business almost as long as the bar. Finishing his drink, House thanked him as he paid the tab and took his leave, deciding then and there to spend as much time in this place as possible before the conference ended and he made his return to New Jersey.

It only took a couple of minutes for House to find the ancient diner Bill told him about. Inside, he was again pleased to find that the only patrons were locals. Apparently a couple of them had been at the bar earlier as they acknowledged him with a nod and a raised coffee cup when he came in. House made his way to a booth towards the back, noting that the linoleum on the floor looked as cracked and worn as the linoleum on the counter that ran along the opposite side of the room. He sat down, the springs sagging and the ancient vinyl protesting. House picked up the menu from its spot between the the condiment rack and the wall. It looked just as old and worn as the rest of the place. The waitress who took his order looked like original equipment too, which suited House just fine.

Waiting for his order, House watched the world go by both within the diner and out on the street. There was a noticeably slower pace here than in Princeton that allowed his brain to unwind a bit more. Of course, those 3 double bourbons I had at the bar might have something to do with it, too, he thought as two more patrons he'd seen earlier wandered in and greeted their fellow drinkers at the counter.

It didn't take long for House's order to arrive, a deep bowl of thick gumbo loaded with shrimp, crawfish, sausage and chunks of what looked to House like alligator. He all but moaned in ecstasy as the first spoonful hit his tongue, the mixture of flavors and spices sending his senses into overdrive. Every bite was another new experience. He thought it was quite possible that each spoonful was like a fingerprint, with no two ever being the same. By the time the waitress came back to check on him a few minutes later the bowl was empty and House had slouched into the booth, his eyes closed.

"Liked that, did you?"

House opened his eyes to see the waitress regarding him with an amused expression.

"It was incredible. Local catch?"

"Every morning. Bobby adds the 'gator when one turns up. He makes the sausage, too."

"Is everything on the menu that good?"

"Never had any complaints. How'd you find this place, anyway? We hardly ever get tourists in here, and the ones we do get usually only stay long enough to turn around and walk back out."

The waitress watched the man's face as he told her how he'd come to be in the diner. She took in his intensely blue eyes, watching them light up as he described his relief at finding the bar just down the block from the convention center. She laughed and nodded when House told her that Bill was the one who'd suggested he eat there.

"Yeah, that's Bill. He an' I have an understanding. Folks who're looking for a drink after lunch, I send his way. Folks looking for food after drinking, he sends my way. He don't get many tourists in there either." She took in his comfortably disheveled appearance, the stubble forming on his jawline. "But then...you're not a tourist, are you?"

"Trust me, the last place I want to be is some place that is crawling with drunken tourists - that is its own private circle of hell. Bad enough that I have to spend 3 more days at a medical conference surrounded by autocratic administrative types who call themselves doctors."

The waitress eyed the man in front of her. "Doctor? You sure as hell don't look like any doctor I've ever seen. What do they call you?"

"House."

"Well, Doc House, my name's Lisette. Y'all need a break from that conference food over at the convention center, you come back here and I'll feed you right. Can I interest you in a slice of pecan pie? Bobby's wife Aimee makes 'em fresh every morning." Lisette's bayou accent washed over House like a warm wave as she pronounced the word "pecan" pu-KAHN instead of pee-CAN like you'd hear anywhere else.

"If Aimee's pie is half as good as Bobby's gumbo, I may never eat anything else again. Yeah, I'll have a slice. And a coffee. The hotel's coffee is shit."

Lisette's musical laughter carried through the diner as she walked away to get his order. House leaned back into the booth, feeling more relaxed than he'd been in a long time. The day may have started like shit, but this was New Orleans, where good booze, good music, and good food had the ability to do wonders for the soul. He dreaded having to go back to the hotel, to endure another day (3 days, he corrected himself) at the conference.

Lisette returned in due course with a huge slice of the best looking pecan pie House had ever seen in one hand and an over-sized mug of coffee in the other. House could feel his mouth begin to water as she set both in front of him, the dueling scents assailing his nose in the best of ways. Lisette stood there and waited for him to taste the pie, watching his eyes slide closed as he savored the first bite. Nodding in approval, she left him to his food and went back to check on her other customers.

House finished the pie and the coffee in short order, finally allowing himself to feel relaxed and sated. He glanced at his watch, noting that it was after midnight. Where did the time go? The last thing he wanted to do was leave the comfort of the diner for the sterility of his hotel room, but he was still feeling the effects of sleep deprivation on top of the bourbon and the food, so he paid his bill at the register, assuring Lisette that he'd be back to eat for as long as he was in town.

House made his way back to the hotel in single-minded pursuit of sleep, the warm humid evening doing nothing to help keep him awake. He entered the lobby in a daze, practically sleepwalking his way up to his room. Before the door had completely closed House had already begun the process of getting out of his clothes, kicking off his sneakers, tossing the jacket over the chair and stripping down to his black boxer briefs. His last act before crawling under the cool crisp sheets was to peel off his socks, leaving them where they fell. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.