On the corner of Borland Street and Seventh Ave N, House was relieved to find a park bench up a short walkway preceding Boitanio Park. He sat down, pulled out his phone and dialed Cameron's number. It rang until it went to voicemail. He hung up without saying anything, waited a few moments and tried again, with the same result. While waiting some more time to call her again, he got a text. His flip phone wouldn't allow him to delete the message without reviewing it, so he opened it. It was from Cuddy, and what she had to say was too interesting to ignore.

Found your bike and her phone, but not her. Police officer dead. Cariboo Highway.

He dialed her number instead, raising the phone to his ear with a tortured sigh. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Like you would pick up during your little temper tantrum?"

"Are you mad at me, Mommy?"

"Do you have any idea how disgusting it is when you call me that, after what we..." Her words bumbled to a halter, but he could still hear the static. "Logan shot your back tire. She fell off your bike; there's a skidmark and some blood... She was driving when she went down."

House suddenly felt an unanticipated surge of protectiveness towards Cameron that was almost fatherly in its manifestation. An anger towards Logan at a level that had proven dangerous in the past. And he didn't care.

"What else do you see?"

"The investigation. I don't see anything else yet."

"One more question, uh, how did you get there?"

"Someone pulled over, helped me out."

"So, can you come get me?"

"No, there's no point. Your bike is useless, and this phone call is all I can take. I just thought you should know that your bike's getting towed and they're issuing a BOLO for both of them."

"They're towing my bike?"

"And I'm not spotting you," she answered smugly. "And neither is Cameron, by the way... She's probably hiding somewhere close, so I'm going to stick around here for awhile, see if I can sniff her out."

"Cuddy, that's a bad idea. You're a beautiful woman, you're by yourself, it'll be dark soon. You've already been beaten, don't...don't—"

"Oops, low battery. Bye."

House sighed into the dial tone, but hung up. He knew Cuddy would duck his calls. Pocketing his phone, he looked around, wishing he had a map or a modern phone.

"Hi. It's Cuddy. Call me back when you can. Or call someone. We're worried."

Sitting in her car, Cuddy hung up and pocketed her phone, sparing a glance through the glass. She wasn't just worried about Cameron; she was worried about House. A big part of her wanted to fetch him from the side of the road. Worrying about Cameron was stressful enough, and his compliment had lessened her anger... But it hadn't alleviated it. Raiding a corpse was unforgivable.

She couldn't deal with him now. Unless his mouth was taped shut. She could hear the sex jokes already.

Cuddy pulled open her glove compartment and made no attempt to stifle her sigh when she realized he had gone through her things. Grabbing a flashlight, she got out of her car and locked it up before walking a ways down the highway. Panicking a little, there was no bounce in her step as she meandered down the road, peering anxiously into the shadowed edge of the forest.

The chime of her phone startled her. Hoping it was Cameron, she got out her phone, entered her password and the message was already displayed.

If she's hiding, calling won't do her any favors.

Cuddy frowned at her phone and put it back in her pocket. House was just so weird sometimes. She looked down at the ground leading into the forest, disappointed to see that it was much too steep to navigate, even in flat shoes. Or at least, too steep to navigate with grace. Keeping her eyes trained upward, she startled when she kicked something. She glanced down and realized it was a phone like hers. She knelt down beside it, wishing she knew Cameron's password to unlock it, just to see if it belonged to her.

House did have a point. He had been hanging out with Cameron; he always called her by her last name, which meant Kayla didn't know her first. Deciding to play it safe, Cuddy stood up and called, "Allison? It's me... Lisa!"

There was no response. Only the growing rumble of an approaching vehicle. Tapping her free hand on her flashlight, Cuddy restlessly turned back towards her car, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the people in the vehicle that roared past. She didn't want to take any chances.

Certainly cold in Canada...

Poor House. He'd been beaten, too. And he was old, and slow... And he'd been so sweet to put his arm around her. And call her beautiful.

What had she done? Opening her car door, she sat down and put away her flashlight, locking the car doors again and digging out her phone. She speed-dialed him and didn't have to wait past the third ring.

"Yeah."

"Where are you?"

"Did you find Cameron?"

"No. I just... I feel bad. I'm sorry."

He chuckled. "I think the Canadian accent is rubbing off on you."

"Just...tell me. You shouldn't be exposed out there after what happened. I was—I was so stupid," she sobbed. "I sent Cameron here, I kicked you out of my car, she's missing, you're..."

"I'm fine," he said firmly. "And what happened to Cameron, that's on Lowell."

She didn't even care enough to correct him. "Where are you?"

"Uh, the...corner of Seventh and Borland."

"I'm coming," she said, and started her car.

"Oh, so weak," he sighed, and hung up. Cuddy hung up as well, looked behind her for traffic, and saw no cars in both directions. So she swung out of the shoulder in a grand U-turn on the highway and peeled off the way she came.

Braking by the sidewalk, Cuddy tried to understand the relief she felt as House, perfectly fine as promised, got off the bench and walked to her car. Would she feel relieved to see him next time, and the time after that? But still overwhelmed with guilt, she avoided eye contact as he got into the vehicle, buckled up and then looked at her; obviously waiting for her to speak or drive and growing impatient when she did neither. He twisted in his seat, observing the immaculate interior of her car.

"This time I'm not asking you," he said into the awkward silence. "Go to a damn restaurant."

She hesitated for a moment, then eked away from the curb and started to drive, remaining utterly silent. House picked up the map and turned on the light above his door. "Okay...If you make two lefts and get on Oliver, we could have KFC."

She continued to give him the cold shoulder.

"Or if you've lost your mind and gone vegetarian... Hang on, let me try to find a...sandwich shop or something in this damn..." His grumbles trailed off as he continued surveying the barely lit map with 66-year-old eyes until he realized that he may as well have been sitting next to a statue. He meticulously folded the map, opened her glove compartment and put it away, turning off the light.

Cold and cumbrous, the silence grew.

He ignored her ignoring him until he no longer could. "Okay. You're at war with yourself. You're a pistol, fully loaded with hormones and I'd be a damn fool to stand in the line of fire. So fine, starve yourself. Kill your kid. I'm not a doctor anymore."

She never responded, but eventually made a left turn and then another, pulling into the parking lot of a KFC. There were no parking spaces, so she just came to a stop and shut off the car. Her right hand moved up onto the wheel before she turned back into stone.

"I'm a failure," she finally said, her voice cracked and emotional. "She only met him because I kept insisting she stay. I'm just... Just as guilty as he is," she sighed.

"You're not an accomplice. You couldn't have known."

"I know what people can be. What they can do, what they can make you do. I was so worried about you, it didn't even occur to me to worry about her."

House wanted to disregard her words with a roll of the eyes, but he was unable. "Well, we know where they're staying," he began. "Let's leave this code red to the boys in blue, you know, let 'em make purple."

"How can you ethically do that? You'd be hurting Kayla, too."

"Isn't it a well-established fact that I have no ethics?" he asked, and unbuckled as she tipped her head in acknowledgment. "I want some grub, too."

Cuddy unbuckled and leaned back in her seat, watching him limp across the parking lot as she warred with herself. And, slouched down in the driver's seat, pouting, was how he came back to find her. He got in the vehicle, closed the door, and offered her the bag; finally looking at her when she didn't take it. She gazed through the windshield, having regressed back into a silent state. He plopped the bag down between them.

"Are we just going to stay here?" he finally demanded. "Because I'd be more effective on foot."

"What are the chances that she's alive?" she mumbled, and glanced at him in the quiet that followed her inquiry. Her tone harsher, she said, "I'm asking you to do the math. Seriously! What are the odds that we'll find her, safe and sound... Ready to live another—fifty years?"

Overlooking the pain in his eyes, she shook her head and turned to retrieve her seatbelt. "I never should have sent her after you."

"Why?" he asked. "Because her life is more important than mine?"

She whipped her head around, staring at him. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. "Shut up and eat your chicken."

"I'll shut up if you put the car into first gear."

She sighed loudly, but clicked her buckle into place.