Chapter a little shorter than usual (joke, it's 6.5k words).
A couple of things:
This past week I watched Sinners, The Accountant 2, The Amateur, A Minecraft Movie, Season Four of The Bear, and the first season of Matlock (the CBS remake/notreallyaremake). In order of individual recommendation depending on how much I liked them from 1 to 10:
10, 8, 6, 100000 (not really), 7 (no episode beats Fishes or Forks), and 8 (it's pretty good).
I changed the book cover photo, a reader from RR sent me a private message (had no idea that was possible), thanks Ando.
Oh and like a grandma who's been too quiet for too long, I nearly died (exaggeration), I fell down the stairs (maybe not entirely an exaggeration). I've got a bruise covering half my back, all good though.
Enjoy.
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The call had really just been to inform the parents that there had been an emergency with one of the kids at camp, but since the emergency didn't directly affect the rest of the kids, there was nothing to worry about.
"How does a kid have a cardiac arrest?" Teddy asked, with disbelief.
"It's incredibly rare for it to happen," I responded immediately, "but it can happen for a couple of reasons, specific diseases or a very poor physical condition, in extreme cases."
Having read hundreds of clinical studies for the research paper, my statistical knowledge was pretty fresh. In the United States, each year only two kids out of every hundred thousand met the criteria to be at risk for a cardiac event, which meant about 0.002% annually of all children in the country. The percentage went up to just under 1% if the child had a cardiopathy, and even then it was much less common in girls. And even those are only children at risk of suffering from it, of that percentage the number of children who actually suffer a cardiac event is even smaller.
"Will she be okay?" Teddy continued, seriously.
It was quite possible that if it was a congenital disease, the girl would have to be placed on the transplant list for a heart transplant. If it was the extreme case of her physical condition, then just managing her body's levels would be enough.
"Yes," I replied with fake seriousness, making both Teddy and Bob, who was listening attentively, relax. Judging by Mom's expression, she was the only one who knew I couldn't guarantee anything without actually knowing the case.
The days passed, and on Sunday, when Gabe's camp ended, we all went together to pick him up.
The three buses that had departed at the start of the previous week were once again parked, with a bunch of kids around them hugging their families after not seeing them for several days.
Meanwhile, the Duncans waited for a couple of minutes until finally Gabe, carrying his backpack and smiling broadly, appeared with a group of kids surrounding him, chatting energetically with my brother.
"Looks like he had fun," Mom commented, relieved.
"The best way for a kid to make friends is out in nature," Bob declared proudly, as if he'd won an argument, judging by Mom's reaction to his words, he probably had.
When Gabe and his small group of kids were close enough, "Oh, that's my brother PJ," he said, pointing at me with a bit of arrogance.
"Hey," I said, confused, looking at the kids Gabe's age who stared at me mouth agape.
Stepping in front of them to place herself between the kids and me, "And I'm his mom, Amy Duncan," Mom said excitedly. Charlie, in Mom's arms, laughed playfully, possibly at the sudden movement.
The kids didn't know how to react to Mom's sudden introduction. Staring strangely at the woman in front of them, they nodded in unison.
"Yeah," Gabe murmured, "all right, see you later."
Following my brother's farewell, the rest of the kids dispersed immediately, looking for their families.
"Did you have fun?" Mom asked Gabe, pulling him into a hug with her free hand.
Breaking free from the forced hug, "Yeah, it was fun," Gabe replied, smiling at me significantly.
Only on the way back home, when Gabe showed me a bunch of one, five and ten bills inside his Velcro wallet, did I discover the reason behind his smile and possibly the kids' surprise. Besides that, thanks to a couple of Mom's questions, we found out that Gabe hadn't known anything about the girl until the rumor spread through camp. The story, apparently, was that the girl had just died possibly starting a ghost story at the camp.
The next day, after spending the day with Gabe as I had promised, I headed to the hospital after dropping my brother off at home.
At the front desk, "PJ," said Mandy, discreetly calling me over to her desk. There was probably an update in the Vogler 'case.'
"What's up?" I asked, getting further into the spy act Mandy seemed to enjoy.
Focusing her gaze into the distance, "Since Vogler got back to his office, he's received more 'classified' documents," Mandy replied, dragging a newspaper across the desk toward me.
"Thanks," I said, taking the unusually heavy newspaper under my arm.
Without saying goodbye to Mandy, I continued on with the newspaper under my arm until I reached one of the hospital corridors that was completely empty. Pulling a thick envelope, clearly filled with classified documents, out from the folded newspaper, I stuffed it into my backpack and left the newspaper on an empty chair.
In the lounge, only Dr. Foreman and Chase were sitting at the table, each working on their own thing.
Hanging my backpack on one of the room's hooks, "Hello," I said, making sure it was securely closed.
"Hey, mate," Chase replied with a slight smile. Dr. Foreman just nodded, a major improvement.
"Anything new?" I asked, taking a seat in one of the empty chairs.
"Maybe. Cameron went out with a bunch of papers to find House," Chase replied, shrugging.
Usually it was Cameron who handled the dozens of requests that came in for House, along with his daily mail. Without her, the few cases the team accepted would drop to zero unless they get to House by pure luck and catch his attention.
Tempted to check the fax machine in House's office, I forced myself to stay seated, idly playing with my fingers on the table. I knew one of the two doctors in the room with me would be House's pick to fire, and knowing they didn't know made it pretty awkward for me.
Fortunately, it wasn't long before House and Cameron arrived at the lounge. House nodded silently at Cameron, likely as an order, and entered his office, probably to drop off his belongings, while the doctor stayed behind and walked toward the table.
"There's a new case," she said, putting a bunch of papers in the center of the table, making us immediately stop what we were doing... At least Chase and Foreman, I was playing with my fingers on the table.
Coming out of his private office, now without backpack or blazer, "Ten-year-old girl suffers cardiac arrest," House said, a bit of excitement in his voice.
"No way," I said immediately, opening my copy of the chart. "My brother was at the same camp where this happened," I added, flipping through the data I wished I'd had days ago.
"Really?" House asked, pretending to be overly interested.
I knew House was about to mock me. "Yeah, the organizers called all the parents after it happened," I said disinterestedly.
"Well, if you know so much about the case, why don't you present it?" House said sarcastically.
"Jessica Simms, ten years old, with morbid obesity in relation to her age and height. Suffered a cardiac arrest three days ago. She's been showing fatigue, myalgia, and difficulty concentrating for some time," I responded effortlessly. One of the perks of reading almost every day and in large amounts was that I could do it very quickly and retain quite a bit of what I read.
Dragging his board to the center of the room, in front of the table, "What's her favorite color?" House asked sarcastically.
"Red," I responded immediately, not caring if it was a lie or not, obviously House didn't care at all about the color.
Snorting, House wrote the symptoms I had mentioned on the board.
After finishing writing, spinning on his heels to face the table, "Okay, we know the basics. Diagnosis?" House asked.
"Ten-year-olds do not have heart attacks, it's gotta be a mistake," said Dr. Foreman immediately.
"Right," House nodded. "Simplest explanation is she's a 40-year-old lying about her age, maybe an actress trying to hang on with kids like your brother's," he added, smiling sinisterly at me.
"Is that one of your fantasies?" I asked, smiling at House with exaggerated disgust on my face, making him immediately lose his smile.
Not letting me enjoy my victory, "I meant maybe the tests were wrong," Dr. Foreman clarified seriously.
"That's what the ER thought," commented Cameron, reading from the documents, "Three CK-MBs were positive, the EKG shows classic signs
of ST elevation, it's a heart attack."
"She's morbidly obese," commented Chase with disdain, tossing his chart onto the table, "the morbid part of that raises alarms."
And it was true, the girl was shorter than average for her age, and several pounds over her ideal weight. Adding that to a sedentary lifestyle was always enough data to explain a cardiac arrest... in a much older patient.
"It takes decades to eat your way into a heart attack," said Dr. Foreman, immediately denying it.
"Doesn't take decades to kill yourself. If I was that fat, I'd be pretty tempted to knock back a bottle of pills," Chase defended himself carelessly.
"Whoa, she's a ten-year-old girl," I said, surprised by how easily Chase jumped to conclusions.
"Yeah, a ten-year-old girl who can barely see her feet," responded Chase, shrugging.
"It's not a drug overdose," declared Cameron seriously, "The fatigue, muscle pain, and difficulty concentrating have been bothering her for over a year."
"That's because of her weight, because of her depression," argued Chase.
"That's what five pediatricians, two nutritionists, and a psychologist said," said House slowly. "The heart attack would seem to indicate that they missed something."
"It's gotta be something genetic," said Dr. Foreman.
And I agreed. As I had explained to Teddy, if it wasn't due to poor physical condition, the only plausible explanation was a congenital disease.
"What about metabolic syndrome X?" asked Cameron.
"I like it," I said, nodding, earning a smile from Cameron.
"Insulin resistance?" asked Chase, incredulous.
"Syndrome X could cause a stroke, I don't know about a heart attack," denied Dr. Foreman.
"If the blood pressure is high enough, it could cause a heart attack," I said. Cameron nodded, pointing at me.
"Which is likely, considering her weight," she commented.
"Fits the symptoms," said House, moving from where he was standing. "Me likee," he added theatrically, "do a hyperinsulinemic-euglycemic clamp."
Following House's last order, the team of three doctors stood up, ready to leave the room. I continued reading the patient's chart, intrigued in case we had missed something.
When the three doctors were just about to move out of the lounge, "Oh, and one more thing," commented House from the doorway of his office, stopping the other doctors in their tracks, "I've been told that I gotta get rid of one of you guys by the end of the week."
I could swear I heard a short circuit go off in the brains of the three doctors next to me, and mine too. I had no idea House would just tell them like that... although knowing him, it was pretty obvious.
It was a great way to psychologically torture the three doctors.
"New sheriff, belt tightening, you know how it goes," he added casually. "Okay, carry on," he said a moment later, disinterestedly, entering his office and closing the door behind him.
With House in his office, the lounge stayed silent for a couple of seconds. The three doctors stared into the void at the same time, each unsure of what to say.
Finally. "It's some kind of game, House's sadistic version of one," said Dr. Foreman, trying to keep his colleagues calm.
Processing for one more second. "It's not House, it's Vogler," said Cameron, sighing disappointed. "We can't let it get to us, we've got to stick together."
A clear move on Cameron's part, completely expected it.
"Why?" asked Chase, frowning.
Same thing there, all that was missing was Foreman's move, and knowing him, he would do the opposite of what House would've wanted.
"Are you suggesting we start slashing each other's throats?" asked Cameron sarcastically.
Yes, that was what he suggested.
"I'm suggesting it's a zero-sum game," responded Chase obviously, "your loss is my win, that's not conducive to team play."
"Which is what House seems to want," commented Dr. Foreman with contempt.
Yup.
"Look, I'm with Cameron," he added, "It may be a bad strategy, but I don't want to give House the satisfaction."
Chase, looking at Dr. Foreman as if a second head had grown from his neck, shook his head, seemingly disappointed.
Noticing that I was still there. "Why haven't you said anything?"
"I don't have a contract with the hospital," I said, shrugging, "and I just submitted a review paper that, if accepted, will bring recognition to the hospital," I added, smiling slightly.
Acknowledging my words, Chase nodded slightly.
"Come on, sick kid, remember?" asked Dr. Foreman, urging the other two doctors to leave the room.
When the doctors left the room, I picked up the patient's chart and headed to House's office.
"Are they scared?" House asked immediately.
Despite being forced to do it, he was strangely interested in his team's suffering, like I said psychological torture.
"No, they united to avoid giving you the satisfaction," I responded.
"I don't believe you," House denied immediately, stretching in his chair, "maybe Foreman," he added a moment later, "Cameron wants to play as a team because that's who she is, and Chase is going to compete to win," he declared confidently.
Sighing in exasperation, I left the papers on House's desk and took a seat in one of the empty chairs. There was no way to deny his words, at least not without him knowing I was lying.
"So what's your plan? Make the team hate each other until one of them quits?" I asked sarcastically.
"Would help me a lot," House responded, shrugging with fake disinterest.
I knew House well enough to think that, deep down, he had a tiny attachment to each of the doctors on his team, making it hard for him to fire any of them. But truth be told, it was much more likely that it was his inability to accept change.
House had all the traits of an obsessive-compulsive maniac, most of the time focused on the interesting cases that landed on his desk. But when he didn't have that, controlling the little things in his life was what kept him going.
Leaning back carelessly in his chair. "How about now, got the balls to give your opinion on who to say goodbye to?" House asked, smiling sinisterly.
Thinking about it for a second. "Chase," I responded seriously.
"Wow, didn't think you actually had the balls," commented House, surprised.
Ignoring House's comment. "I don't know what's going on with him lately, but I think this team only has room for one emotionless sociopath," I said.
Since his mistake that could have cost a patient her life, Chase had made a radical change in his behavior. It was obvious that he was insecure about his job, and having House as a boss, there was no way to blame him for that, but even so, his actions, both personal and in this case so far, couldn't be justified.
Placing a hand on his chest. "Aw, I didn't know you thought so highly of me," said House with exaggerated tenderness.
Raising my hands, keeping my face completely expressionless. "What can I say? I guess I've got a soft spot for you."
"Unfortunately, I can't say the same," declared House, falsely apologetic.
Snorting, I shook my head, picking up the documents from House's desk again, ready to continue with my reading.
Just as I opened the pages where I had left off. "Uh, don't want to interrupt you, but it's time to go to the clinic," said House, again falsely apologetic, "you've got a few more hours to cover," he added, checking his watch.
Watching House stand up and walk out of his office. "Do I?" I asked in a whisper to myself, exasperated.
Following House out of his office not long after he left, I caught up with him almost immediately. We walked in silence to the clinic, where I greeted Fryday while House entered the exam room on his own, ready to begin his shift of magazine reading.
Handing me a stack of patient charts waiting for consultation. "Did Mandy give you the 'package'?" asked Fryday discreetly.
"Yes," I responded, flipping through the first charts. Having already worked dozens of times in the clinic, it wasn't very hard to not get bored of the routine. Fryday and the other nurses on rotation knew this and always set aside the interesting cases for me... at least when there were any.
"Has it been of any use to you?" the woman asked. "I skimmed through it and it looks like nothing more than performance reports for his drug company, nothing compromising."
She was right, at least with the first stolen document. I hadn't yet reviewed the last one I'd been given.
Honestly, knowing how Vogler's company's drug was performing or his movements in the hospital didn't interest me in the slightest but, since he no longer had a direct way of threatening me, at least not knowingly, I preferred to keep it that way. And for that, I needed to know every move he made.
Snorting. "He who knows his enemy and himself need not fear the result of a thousand battles," I said, amused, recalling House's words or 'Sun Tzu's,' to be more specific.
Surprised by the sudden quote, Fryday just looked at me with wide eyes for a second before shrugging snorting playfully.
Thanking her for the help, I picked up the first chart to call the next patient. Beginning what was becoming more a boring part of my day than something I could learn from.
After several patients, with a new chart in my hand. "Mrs. Hernandez, Lucille Hernandez," I called to the people waiting.
Immediately, from one of the chairs, a significantly overweight woman stood up. From her entire body language and the way she walked toward me, she was visibly upset.
"I've been waiting for over an hour, what kind of clinic is this?" she asked, moving her neck with cynicism.
The kind that's free.
Forcing a rueful smile. "We are doing everything possible to treat everyone with the quality they deserve, but unfortunately, we do not have enough doctors to make it a quick process," I said, clenching my jaw.
"Well, you should hire more doctors," she said with disdain.
"That's a great idea, I'll make sure to pass it on to administration," I said, smiling emptily.
Snorting, possibly seeing through my lie, Mrs. Hernandez walked into the consultation room without waiting for any instruction from me.
Glancing sideways at Fryday, who smiled at me with pity, I sighed and followed the woman who, for someone significantly overweight, walked quite gracefully in high heels.
Stopping at the door of the consultation room. "Who's that?" Mrs. Hernandez asked, pointing at House.
Without taking his eyes off his magazine, casually raising his hand. "I am a doctor, I'm here to supervise," House replied, the same line he always used when someone asked why he was there.
Accepting the answer without much trouble, the woman walked to the examination table, getting on it with a small jump and some awkward adjusting movements.
Sanitizing my hands with antibacterial gel. "So, Mrs. Hernandez, what brings you here today?" I asked, smiling gently, hoping my attitude would help relax hers.
"I'm pretty sure I wrote it on one of those forms, didn't you read it?" she asked, raising one of her eyebrows, pointing at the chart I had left on one of the small tables in the room.
"I did," I responded immediately, "but it's important you explain it to me in your own words."
The vast majority of the time, depending on the case, it was incredibly easy to diagnose a clinic patient just from the written part they had to fill out upon arrival. The problem was when it wasn't easy. The woman had scribbled 'heart thing.'
Looking at her, a woman in her forties; dressed in quality, relatively new and well-maintained clothing, wearing makeup, manicured nails and treated hair, married to a Latino man for several years judging by the state of the ring on her finger and her last name, she didn't visibly present anything besides annoyance and exasperation over her wait. There wasn't a single sign of a cardiac event, so 'heart thing' was absolutely useless.
Murmuring something about 'wasting time,' the woman rolled her eyes. "I have this thing, that it's really bad, especially at night," she said, pressing her hand to her chest. "It's like my heart is on fire."
And that was all I needed, heartburn.
"Like it's, oh, I don't know. Like…" the woman murmured, frowning, searching for the word.
"Burning?" I asked, clenching my jaw.
House, who was behind the woman, slightly lifted his eyes from the magazine, possibly thinking the same thing I was about the patient.
"Yes," the woman replied.
"It's a heartburn," I said, forcing myself not to sound condescending.
"So, can you give me something?" the woman asked, making a frustrated face.
"I can, but I have a couple of questions first," I said, nodding. "Do you eat a lot of spicy food, especially before bed?" I asked.
It was quite likely her partner, Mr. Hernandez, was of Mexican descent, and from what little I had gathered about the woman, I highly doubted she cooked often at home.
"No, I don't like that stuff," she denied immediately.
"Alcohol?"
"Only the healthy kind," the woman replied.
The healthy kind?
"An approximate amount?" I asked.
"One or two glasses of wine a week," the woman answered plainly.
"Okay," I nodded, mentally reviewing the list of common causes of heartburn. Spicy, no. Alcohol, minimal. Stress, she didn't seem beyond impatience. Overweight, yes, but not to a level that would justify it solely through reflux.
I looked again at her high heels, the uncomfortably tight dress she wore, and her makeup. Her entire attitude exuded a very specific self-confidence that a person, regardless of weight, only got in two ways, having a lot of money or through exaggerated external appreciation. Her clothes, while high-quality, weren't even close to the kind I had seen Regina or London wear, so it had to be the latter.
Checking the chart, I immediately connected the dots. Heartburn, moderate weight gain since her last weigh-in not too long ago, and the uncomfortable way she moved despite only being seated.
"Mrs. Hernandez, when was your last period?" I asked calmly.
She blinked, slightly confused. "What? I'm not pregnant," she said, offended, moving her neck from side to side.
"It's best to cover all the bases," I said, and it was pretty important too, because if it wasn't pregnancy, the visible symptoms could also be caused by cancer.
"I know when I'm pregnant, all right?" said the woman, raising her finger and shifting her body angrily. "I have six kids," she declared.
Yeah, seems like Mr. Hernandez really loves his wife.
"That's why my husband had a vasectomy, and we use condoms," she declared, with contempt.
Even though she spoke with contempt, I could see a hint of worry in her eyes.
Curious, I decided to ignore it for now. "That's good, but vasectomies can reverse themselves and condoms can break, it wouldn't be the first time," I said, "nor the last."
Standing up, with uncomfortably slow movements. "Okay," the woman said, gesturing to her body with open palms, "this is what a woman is supposed to look like."
"I'm not-" I tried to say.
Snapping her fingers, cutting me off. "Okay?" she asked, tilting her neck. "We're not just skin and bones, we have flesh," she declared, pressing her hand all over her body, "we have curves."
House, who was now fully looking over his magazine, looked genuinely stunned by what was happening, just like I was.
Firmly stopping the woman, who was trying to leave the room with her face flushed with anger, I looked her directly in the eyes. "You're completely right," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "I guess I was completely biased by hundreds of hours of study," I murmured, the last part more to myself than to her.
"Damn right," said the woman, waving her finger in front of her body.
"I'll go find some antacids while the nurse gets here to draw some blood."
"Blood? Why?" she asked, suspicious.
"Well, if you're completely sure you're not pregnant, we urgently need to quantify the serum levels of human chorionic gonadotropin, check the estradiol-to-progesterone ratio, and monitor the presence of circulating beta subunits," I replied, maintaining a concerned tone.
"What is all that?" the woman asked.
"It's to rule out the presence of an invasive structure in the implantation phase, which alters the hormonal balance of the host and begins redirecting nutrients toward its own development. It tends to cause fatigue, nausea, abdominal distension… that kind of thing."
The woman stared at me, nodding clearly without understanding any of it. "Okay…" she finally said, crossing her arms nervously.
"There's nothing to worry about," I assured her with a smile. "I just want to rule out the improbable before assuming the obvious."
"All right."
After asking Fryday for help, who then called the nurse on duty, the woman left the consultation room with a little less blood in her system and a free sample of antacids.
Closing his magazine with a snap and setting it aside with the others. "Invasive structure in implantation phase," House repeated, raising one of his eyebrows.
Sanitizing my hands again. "That's pretty much what a baby is," I said, snorting.
Checking his watch, House stood up with some effort, he was probably numb from all the time he'd spent sitting. "I'm going to the cafeteria, finish the charts," he ordered, walking out of the room.
"Yes sir" I said sarcastically following him out of the room shortly after
Outside I saw Dr. Wilson waiting for House immediately after greeting each other, the two walked confidently towards the cafeteria. Snorting in disbelief, I headed back to the reception desk, ready to finish the paperwork and chat a bit with Nurse Fryday.
Shortly after, having finished the charts for the day's patients, I returned to the lounge where I found Cameron working on some papers.
"Hey," I said, smiling at the doctor, walking over to the bookshelf to pick out one of the books I hadn't read yet.
"Welcome back, how was the clinic?" she asked kindly.
"Ah you know," I said dismissively, trying to forget the image of Mrs. Hernandez moving her hand over her body, leaving the book on the table on my way to the fridge to grab my food containers.
Aside from martial arts training, Case also handled Tim and I diets. Surprisingly, after a quick calculation of caloric intake and macro and micronutrients, they were always extremely balanced diets.
"What do you have today?" asked Cameron, stretching her neck.
"Chicken, rice, broccoli, two boiled eggs, and nuts," I replied, grabbing the handful of nuts before putting the food in the microwave.
While my food was heating and I ate my nuts, Chase and Dr. Foreman entered the lounge. "She's not a baby, she's ten," argued Chase.
Okay...
"And you figure making her feel like crap would do her a world of good?" asked Dr. Foreman, annoyed.
"Yeah, if it gets her off the couch," replied Chase.
Chase's attitude was really bothering me. I couldn't help but remember how he had treated me after the Sister Agustine incident. Now he was treating a patient even worse, again, even if it was indirectly.
"I'm sure she's already under enough pressure," Cameron said, frowning.
Snorting, Chase shook his head. "Not from Mummy."
"But definitely from everyone else, apparently even her doctors," I said exasperated, pulling my food out of the microwave.
Pointing at me. "Yeah, everything in society tells us we have to be thin to be successful," Cameron added.
"No, society tells you, you have to be thin to be attractive," declared Chase, smiling triumphantly, "and guess what, that's what attractive means, that society likes looking at you."
"I think we should be telling our kids it's fine as long as they're healthy," replied Cameron, more seriously.
"You weigh ninety pounds because it makes you healthier?" he threw at her. "And you're bulking up because it makes you healthier?" he asked me, pointing at my small mountain of food.
"Yeah," I replied without a second thought, eating one of the now-steaming broccoli florets.
"Forget it," Foreman cut in, fed up. "He's just cranky because he knows he's the one who's gonna get the axe."
The consequences of House's mind games were surfacing.
"We don't know that, do we?" asked Chase with fake confidence, "we still have time before House's decision," he added in a poor attempt, at least to my eyes, to mask his certainty with arrogance.
Chase was pretty sure he wouldn't lose his job, and the reason why was painfully obvious.
I couldn't help but snort at his audacity.
Apparently nervous from defending himself against Foreman. "What?" Chase asked me immediately, "you're only here because you cost the hospital practically nothing," he added in a pathetic attempt to be offensive.
Leaning back in my chair. "Great one," I said sarcastically. "Unfortunately, it seems your poor interpretation of House isn't good enough to insult like he does."
"What?" he frowned.
"Oh, sorry, I thought that's what you were doing," I said, crossing my arms. "You know, acting like an asshole so House sees himself in you and doesn't pick you."
My words were surprisingly funny to Foreman, who snorted making Chase frown.
Not that it would work, after all, I highly doubted Chase would be fired while acting as Vogler's 'spy.'
"Acting like an asshole?" Chase asked, shaking his head.
"Well, I don't know. Maybe in Australia, being overly critical of a ten-year-old girl's body isn't acting like an asshole," I said with fake confusion, shrugging.
"I'm not being overly critical, I'm being realistic, and above all, a doctor," Chase defended himself, visibly irritated.
"Oh no, no. A doctor cares about the patient's full health, that includes mental health, especially if it's a ten-year-old girl," I said, genuinely upset. "You can't just judge a child, or any person as a matter of fact, without knowing their life or environment, you could trigger an eating disorder incredibly easily."
Obesity wasn't yet classified as a disease, and wouldn't be for many more years. There were hundreds of studies on risk factors for childhood illness, from family environment to genetic traits, even very common hormonal deviations.
"What would you know about what a doctor does?" asked Chase, apparently deciding to ignore my words completely.
Sighing, disappointed. "Yeah sure man, whatever you say," I said, opening the book in front of me, "you should go to the pediatrics wing, I'm sure there's a ten-year-old girl with a body up to your standards," I commented meaningfully.
I understood House, it was incredibly easy to twist someone's words to make them look like an idiot. Surprisingly satisfying too.
"What the fuck did you just say?" stepping closer, clearly furious, Chase slammed one of his hands against the table, startling Cameron.
Foreman, apparently on instinct and deciding that the situation had gone from funny to serious, stepped in ready to intervene.
Calmly settling into my chair. "Come on," I said, smiling with contempt, "you cried for days over a slap, surely no one wants to deal with you after I kick your ass," I declared, arrogantly spreading my arms.
Unlike the few times I had initiated a fight on my own, my feelings toward Chase didn't really justify 'teaching him a lesson,' but that didn't mean I'd turn down an open invitation to rearrange his face.
Clenching his jaw, Chase breathed heavily, probably debating whether fighting a minor was a good idea. Cameron, who was standing right behind him, looked nervously between him and me, or at least that's what I saw in my peripheral vision, my eyes never left Chase's. To be honest, I was challenging him to act.
Before Chase made his move, giving me a free sparring dummy in the process, Dr. Foreman intervened, grabbing his colleague's shoulder. "Calm down," he ordered seriously. "Do something and we won't have to wait until the weekend."
"Yeah, like that would matter," I commented sarcastically, smiling at Chase, who, judging by his his immediate change of expression, seemed to suspect what I meant.
Finally stepping back from the table, but without taking his eyes off me. "We have to do the hyperinsulinemic-euglycemic clamp," said Chase slowly.
"Yeah," Cameron responded immediately, clearly anxious about the situation.
Snorting with disdain, I broke eye contact with Chase, returning to my food and the book in front of me.
None of the three doctors said anything as they left the room, neither to each other nor to me, allowing me to calm my pulse, breathing steadily.
Reading the book while I ate, I spent a little over an hour alone in the lounge until suddenly, the door just a few steps away opened again.
Entering the room. "What else could cause uncontrollable rage in a 10-year-old?" asked House.
Swallowing food with effort. "Uncontrollable rage?" I asked, confused.
Falsely surprised, turning to look at me as if I'd been invisible until then. "Oh hey, you're here, eating your lunch alone like the weirdo kid you are," House exclaimed, clutching his chest.
Ignoring House's joke. "During the hyperinsulinemic-euglycemic clamp procedure, she got really thirsty and enraged," Cameron explained, "we had to sedate her."
"Yeah, welcome to the case," added House sarcastically as he approached his board, writing 'Temporary Psychosis,' "so, what else?"
"Nothing that could also cause a heart attack," replied Foreman.
After he spoke, the room fell completely silent.
Leaning on his cane, House clicked his tongue. "I don't think I need to remind you, but now would be an extremely good time for one of you to distinguish yourself with a brilliant idea," he said ironically. "Well, except for you, kid, we all know you're protected by mommy's love."
Chase, who was overly focused thinking, obviously intending to 'beat' his colleagues, snorted, possibly without realizing it himself, causing House to squint at him strangely, then look at me.
Finally. "A hypercoagulable state can cause a blood clot," said Chase quickly. "Blood clots can cause a heart attack."
"More likely to cause a stroke, not the psychosis," argued Cameron.
"No, you're wrong," declared Chase immediately. "If a clot made it to the amygdala area of the brain, it might cause uncontrollable rage," he argued.
"Right, because anything's possible, but nothing's gonna cause multiple clots in a kid this age," said Cameron seriously.
"She's fat," declared Chase, exasperated.
Sighing, incredulous at his insistence on being an idiot, I shook my head.
"Obesity doesn't cause blood clots," Cameron argued correctly.
"Extremely obese patients can get a fat embolus," replied Chase obviously.
House, widening his eyes possibly due to the stupidity of the argument, looked at Dr. Foreman, seemingly expecting a response from the other doctor, receiving instead total silence.
"Right, after they've had liposuction, which she's clearly never had."
"How do you know?" asked Chase arrogantly.
Snorting. "Was that a real questions? because maybe your asshole act isn't an act at all," I said, exasperated, "it's obvious a ten-year-old girl hasn't had liposuction."
"Then what?" asked House, not bothering to comment on what I'd said to Chase.
Sighing heavily. "Extreme treatments for obesity," I answered, making House nod.
"Like what?" asked Dr. Foreman, interested.
"Diet pills can cause heart attacks and blood clots," I replied, lightly shrugging my shoulders.
Cameron gently shook her head. "Her tox screen was negative."
Before I could defend my theory, "Wouldn't show over-the-counter weight-loss drugs," said House.
"Her mother wouldn't give her diet pills," argued Cameron.
"She thinks her daughter's perfect just the way she is," said Chase sarcastically.
Thinking for a second. "She's lying," declared House.
"No, the patient is a ten-year-old girl," I said, emphasizing the age to Chase, "comments from idiotic people could have pushed her to steal," I declared.
"Whatever," mumbled House, shrugging. "You two, heparin and warfarin to prevent further clotting," he said, pointing at Cameron and Chase, "and you, find those pills," he added while walking past Foreman. "Come on kid."
Following House to his office, consciously forcing myself not to bump into Chase as I walked past him, I took a seat in one of the chairs in front of House's desk while he searched for something among his things.
"You said something about Chase?" he asked me.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Pressing my hands against my face. "You know I didn't," I said, exhaling.
Otherwise, I wouldn't be the only one so mad at him, Cameron would probably despise him instead of just disagreeing with his way of thinking.
Nodding, House finally pulled out a prescription pill bottle just as the office door opened.
Handing over one of the pills and closing the bottle again. "Not diet pills," he said, shaking his medication bottle at Foreman, who closed the door behind him as he entered the office.
In silence, Foreman walked up to the desk. From his expression, it was clear he came to argue with House.
Putting his prescription pill bottle back where he took it from. "You might wanna broaden the search just a little," House commented sarcastically. "Don't just ask the mom. If she hasn't mentioned it yet, she's not-" he added until Foreman interrupted him.
"If you're gonna fire someone, go ahead and do it, but don't treat us like lab rats, testing how long it takes to get us at one another's throats."
It was exactly what House was doing, in one way or another, it had even worked on me.
"So what should I do?" asked House, carelessly.
"I don't give a damn what you do," replied Foreman bluntly.
"Yes, I had noticed your complete indifference," said House, nodding. "You don't even offer a medical opinion anymore."
House's words, completely true, made Foreman go quiet.
"Who would you fire?" asked House.
"Not my call," replied Foreman, walking toward the office exit.
"Fine, it's you," declared House calmly, making Foreman stop one step from the door. "Either way, you're making a choice."
Dr. Foreman silently thought for a moment, his eyes passing over me for a second before looking resolutely at House. "Chase."
The only logical answer, for many reasons.
Surprised. "Because he screwed up an angio a month ago?" House asked.
Shaking his head. "Anyone can make a mistake," declared Foreman seriously.
"Right," murmured House, nodding. "So it's the money you resent, so you're gonna tell me that he doesn't need the job."
"He doesn't appreciate the job," Foreman corrected him.
"He was ready to go three rounds with Cameron for it," argued House, shrugging.
"No, he wants the job, he just doesn't appreciate it," said Dr. Foreman, seriously, his eyes again landing on me for a second. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to hang out, but this is not the place to do it."
Processing Foreman's words for a second. "I'm surprised," House commented.
"You thought I'd pick Cameron?" asked the other doctor, frowning.
"I didn't think you'd pick at all," replied House.
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I read your comments, this is not a cliffhanger, it's just a normal chapter ending :D
By the way, I never wrote that PJ eats in the hospital so, the collective imagination has to do its job and recognize that it has always happened, I just skipped it.
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Author Thoughts:
As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter, not Magnus Carlsen, not Michael Phelps, not Arsene Lupin, not McLovin, not Elliot, not Capone.
Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:
11332223
RandomPasserby96
Victor_Venegas
I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.
Thank you for reading! :D
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