The first months she folds in on herself, stays small, and tries
to keep up with his long uneven stride. Hiding seems wise.
Sometimes being unobtrusive has advantages. She tries for mousy.
When she offers a differential, her voice is low, her words the
quiet brush strokes of a watercolorist. Does he feel them on his
skin? Does she want to know?  For years, she has studied
medicine. Now she studies him.  He watches her when he thinks
she's not aware. It has been so from the first day. She
remembers the weight of his eyes on her shoulder blades - as if
she wasn't carrying enough weight, the past a stuffed backpack.
You've never been where I am, she presumes.  Has he?  Chase
walks in to her sorting the mail, and slumps into a chair,
shaking his head, and opening The New York Times. House stands
at the board, staring at the answer she's written, her
diagnosis, of the case. He turns to address his slender
immunologist. She looks up, her confidence at odds with her
quietness. He opens his mouth and closes it, as sh