By the time the truck found its way off the mountain, it was dark. House rested amid the debris of his belongings, his 66-year-old eyes trying to discern the unfamiliar land. The road was abandoned; he wasn't staring into the glare of headlights. And Canada, or at least this part of it, was nice. The night was nice. And he couldn't feel a damn thing.

Wilson...

"I'm telling you, he's one of them."

Kayla rolled her eyes. "You say that every time we meet someone new."

"Listen to me, whatever that gunshot was, he's involved."

"You don't know that!"

"I asked him." He spared her stupefied face a quick glance. "Alright, he didn't actually confess, but he looked guilty as hell."

"You have a gun. Actually, three."

"Yeah, and we know where our bullets are going. Listen, he claims to be the head of a department that doesn't exist."

"That doesn't mean he knows anything about you."

"When we were at the gas station he compared me to a mutant. I'm telling you, he's dangerous!"

That effectively silenced her...at least until she asked, "What department?"

"Diagnostics. Can you believe that? That's like calling him the head of every hospital. It's not only an obvious lie, it's a loaded one."

Kayla got out her phone and began tapping away. "Diagnostician...Gregory House...New Jersey. Ah, yep. It's legit." She held up her phone and he divided his attention.

"Damn," he breathed, glowering severely out the windshield. At that moment, they heard the sound of an engine speeding towards them, as the headlights shone past Greg's head. Kayla looked over her shoulder, at the diagnostician's silhouette as he shielded his eyes. With a roar of the engine, the Subaru Outback flew up to theirs, keeping their illegally-placed passenger in the spotlight; then swerved into the field. And started pushing into the passenger side of Logan's pickup, attempting to steer them into oncoming traffic.

Hearing Kayla's muffled shriek, House grabbed his cane, slid over to the side panel of the bed, and started swinging at the offender's gas tank.

The driver of the Subaru Outback accelerated his vehicle, speeding past them―and swerving to a stop in their path. Gritting his teeth, Logan stomped on the gas.

"Logan, no! Gregory!" Kayla screamed. Too late and too pissed, Logan rammed the Subaru; causing both of their car alarms to go off.

"What the shit is this?" Logan growled, as he got out of the car. He roared in anger as the bullets began pinging off his metal body. Unscathed, his claws came out; glinting with death in the headlights.

Those who survived, fled the scene; but Logan chased them into the dark.

Breathing hard, Kayla waited for the car alarms to stop; then finally listened for noise. Not hearing any, she peeked into the rearview mirror.

She couldn't see him. So she looked between the seats. But she still couldn't see him.

Kicking open her door, Kayla got out and looked at the road. Nothing. Hurrying to the back of the truck, she found him on his back. Unconscious, again.

Didn't take a doctor to diagnose an asshole. Or a dead man. Those men out there, they didn't stand a chance. She got back into the truck and waited for her hero to return. When he did, of course he was unharmed. He got into the driver's seat, slammed the door, dodged the Subaru, and sped down the road without uttering a single word.

Finally Kayla couldn't bear the silence. "You kill them all?"

He grunted a response that could have been yes or no.

"We're fine, by the way."

Another chilling silence.

"Did you know them?"

Clearly in no mood to chat, he scrounged up enough goodness to be civil about it. "Colonel Stryker's men." His eyes flashed to hers. "Yeah, he's a doctor. You sure they're not in touch?"