In a barbecue joint, somewhere in Missouri, House and Wilson were sitting in a booth waiting for a combination plate. It was dark out that night but the lights in the barbecue place were intensely bright, giving an Edward Hopper feel to the atmosphere.
Both men had been very talkative when they first entered but House got quiet rather suddenly and Wilson couldn't help feeling that he was getting ready to say something significant, so he waited.
House took a big swig of his bottle of beer, sighed and said, "Wilson?"
House reached out on the table and patted Wilson's bare forearm. "Nothing."
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