Chapter 26: House Pushes Harder
The pager goes off at 6 AM Thursday morning.
Not 911. Just a message: Clinic opens at 7. You're seeing 20 patients before noon. - House
Twenty patients in five hours. That's one every fifteen minutes with no breaks.
Fine. He wants to test efficiency. I'll show him efficient.
I'm at the hospital by 6:30, reviewing yesterday's clinic notes, preparing for the onslaught.
House is waiting in the clinic, feet up on the reception desk, playing his Game Boy.
"Morning, sunshine. Hope you slept well. Today's going to be fun."
"Twenty patients before noon. Got it."
"Oh, that's just part one." He hands me a stack of journal articles. "Also need you to review these hundred pages of literature on experimental MS treatments. Summary and analysis by end of day."
The stack is easily three inches thick. Complex immunology papers, clinical trial results, meta-analyses.
"Anything else?"
"Since you asked—" He pulls out another file. "Treatment protocol analysis for the Cushman case. Experimental gene therapy. Need your assessment of risks, benefits, contraindications. Also by end of day."
Foreman walks in, stops when he sees my pile of work.
"Why is Chase getting triple duty?"
"Because I'm testing whether he's human or some kind of medical robot sent from the future to make the rest of you look bad." House doesn't look up from his game. "So far, the evidence points to robot."
Cameron arrives, sees the setup. "That's not fair. That's deliberately impossible."
"Medicine is impossible. Good doctors do it anyway." House finally looks at me. "Unless you want to admit you can't handle it? Say the word, I'll redistribute the workload."
This is the test. Admit limitation or push through.
If I complete everything perfectly, I confirm his suspicions. If I fail, I look incompetent.
Split the difference. Do it all adequately, not perfectly.
"I'll manage."
House grins. "That's what I thought."
The clinic is chaos.
Patient one: Common cold. Seven minutes.
Patient two: Knee pain from jogging. Six minutes.
Patient three: Anxiety attack. Eleven minutes—actually listening helps.
Patient four: Drug-seeking. Three minutes to identify through lie detection, two more to redirect to addiction counseling.
The ringing is constant. Every patient who minimizes symptoms, exaggerates pain, lies about compliance, hides drug use—the sound builds and builds until my skull feels like it's vibrating.
Aspirin between patients five and six. Barely touches it.
By patient fifteen, I'm running on pure discipline. Headache so bad I'm seeing spots. But the diagnoses are accurate. The care is appropriate.
Patient twenty walks out at 11:47 AM.
I made it. Barely.
House is waiting. "Impressive. Most people would've cracked by patient twelve."
"Most people didn't work ER for three years before this."
"Right. The mysterious ER training that explains everything." He taps his cane against my desk. "How's that literature review coming?"
I spent lunch reading. Made it through forty pages, took notes, identified key themes.
"In progress."
"Progress isn't completion. Better work faster."
The literature review takes all afternoon.
Complex immunology. Experimental treatments. Statistical analyses that require actual focus to parse. I work through it systematically, building a framework of understanding, documenting key points.
By 5 PM, I've completed seventy pages. Summary is coherent but not comprehensive.
The treatment protocol analysis is still untouched.
House appears at my desk. "Time's up. Let's see what you've got."
I hand him my summary. Ten pages of condensed analysis, key findings, treatment implications.
He reads it in silence. Then: "This is good. Not great—you missed some nuance in the Berkowitz study—but good. When did you sleep last night?"
"Enough."
"Liar. You look like hell. When did you actually sleep?"
Six hours. Normal amount. But the lie detection headache makes me look worse than I feel.
"I took a nap yesterday evening. I'm fine."
"You didn't finish the protocol analysis."
"Ran out of time. I prioritized clinic patients and literature review. The protocol analysis can wait until tomorrow—the Cushman case isn't critical yet."
House studies me. "Most people would've panicked. Stayed all night. Burnt out trying to complete everything."
"Most people don't know how to triage priorities."
"Or they're not enhanced medical robots with superior time management." He taps his cane. "You completed twenty patients perfectly, seventy pages of complex literature adequately, and you're standing here defending your choices calmly. No panic, no excuses, no breakdown."
Shit. I played it too well.
"I did my best with the time available. If that's insufficient—"
"It's exactly sufficient. That's the problem." House leans closer. "You're always exactly sufficient. Never fail, never excel beyond believability, never crack under pressure. It's like you're calibrated."
The team is watching now. Foreman from his desk, Cameron from the doorway.
"I'm just trying to do good work."
"No. You're trying to appear human while being something else." House straightens. "But you're not perfect at hiding it. You wince at things that aren't there. You volunteer for dangerous work without hesitation. You read people better than anyone except me. And you never, ever actually fail."
Silence in the office.
Then House delivers the real attack.
"Your father abandoned you because you were disappointing. Seminary was hiding from inadequacy. Australia wasn't far enough, so you came to America—running from yourself. And now you're here, working desperately to prove you're worth keeping, terrified someone will see through the performance and realize you're still that disappointing kid nobody wanted."
Cameron's face goes pale. "House—"
Foreman looks uncomfortable. "That's over the line."
But I'm not reacting. Because I've heard worse. Because I'm not actually the original Chase—his father issues don't cut the way House expects.
And because I know what House is doing.
"That's your theory," I say calmly. "Mine is: I wanted better weather and fewer people psychoanalyzing me. New Jersey fails on both counts."
House blinks. Expected tears, anger, defensive breakdown. Got dry Australian wit instead.
"You're not upset."
"Should I be? You're taking random facts about my history and constructing a narrative that fits your worldview. It's not particularly accurate, but it's creative." I stand, grab my coat. "Are we done? I have a protocol analysis to finish at home."
"We're done when I say we're done."
"Then say it. Because I've completed everything medically relevant for today. If you want to continue amateur psychology hour, do it on your own time."
The silence stretches. House is recalculating.
Then Wilson's voice cuts through: "House. My office. Now."
House limps away without another word.
Wilson catches me in the parking lot twenty minutes later.
"That was impressive. Most people break when House goes for the father issues."
"Most people actually have the father issues he's attacking." I unlock my car. "I've made my peace with my family history. House's psychological warfare doesn't work if you've already done the therapy."
"You've done therapy?"
No. But I'm a thirty-two-year-old who's already died once. Perspective helps.
"Enough to know House is full of shit when he plays amateur psychiatrist."
Wilson laughs. "He's going to hate that you're not breaking."
"He's testing boundaries. Waiting for me to snap, quit, or reveal whatever he thinks I'm hiding."
"And what are you hiding?"
I meet his eyes. "Nothing he'd understand."
Wilson studies me for a long moment. "That's what worries me. House needs to understand everything. When he can't, he either destroys it or becomes obsessed." He pauses. "You're trending toward obsession. Be careful."
"Obsession I can handle. Destruction would be problematic."
"For House, they're usually the same thing." Wilson heads back inside. "Watch yourself, Chase."
I drive home through Princeton streets that look grey and tired. The headache has evolved from sharp ringing to dull, persistent throb.
House is escalating. Testing harder, pushing boundaries, attacking psychology.
And I'm holding. But for how long?
The notebook comes out the moment I'm through the door.
Day 46-48: House Escalation Event
Impossible overlapping tasks assigned: clinic (20 patients/5 hours), literature review (100 pages), protocol analysis (full assessment). Completed adequately, not perfectly. Deliberate choice to appear human.
Psychological attack: Father abandonment, seminary escape, running from inadequacy. Deflected with humor. Did not react emotionally—House noticed.
Wilson's warning (third time): "House destroys what he can't understand."
Analysis:
House's obsession intensifying. Building comprehensive case. Expects emotional vulnerability, gets controlled competence. This confuses him but also intrigues him further.
Cannot fail (patients suffer), cannot excel too much (suspicion grows), must maintain exact balance.
Strategy going forward:
Make small, visible mistakes on non-critical tasksShow more emotional reaction to pressure (controlled, but visible)Reduce volunteering for dangerous workFind way to appear more "normal"
Friday: Coffee with Cameron.
One good thing in the chaos. Focus on that.
I close the notebook, take more aspirin for the headache, and try to sleep.
Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow, House will test me again. Tomorrow, I'll have coffee with Cameron and pretend everything is fine.
Balance. Always balance.
How much longer can I maintain it?
No answer. Just the alarm set for 6 AM and the knowledge that tomorrow brings new challenges.
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
The game continues. House is obsessed. And I'm running out of moves that don't expose everything.
Stay competent. Stay mysterious. Stay human.
Barely.
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