A/N: Doris Egan, the wonderful House writer/producer, once offered a challenge to viewers after "Birthmarks" aired: come up with other ways House might have thwarted Wilson's efforts to drag him to his father's funeral. This story is my answer to that challenge. It was inspired by a dollop of reality and a whole bunch of stuff that may have happened in a galaxy far, far away. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

P.S. Thanks to Betz88 for dragging this from the embers.

"In the Headlights"

Wilson purchased a Sirius satellite radio three days before leaving, knowing he would need it for the trip. After getting the news and conferring with Cuddy, Wilson took a drive to Trenton to make his purchase. Dan, the manager of Louie-Sam's Audio Emporium, gave him a good deal, which included a service contract and installation. Even so, Wilson had the thing installed at the Volvo dealership near work. No sense taking a chance with an unknown entity when keeping House distracted was of the utmost importance.

And there was enough variety on the Sirius menu to keep the most discerning music aficionado from growing bored. But who was he kidding? Music wasn't going to be the balm to soothe this savage beast. House was not going to cooperate; he had no intention of the attending his father's funeral in Lexington. But, surprise, surprise! He was going, whether he liked it or not.

This fact would turn him as vicious and petulant as a gorilla snatched from the wild and thrust into a bamboo cage. And like that unfortunate simian, the Greg-beast was about to be tranked, dosed with enough Lorazepam to put him out for the count for a good long while.

It would be, Cuddy told Wilson as they planned and plotted this scheme in her office three afternoons ago, the only way to get House in the car and on his way. Wilson had no choice but to agree. He kind of liked the idea of a hapless, doped up House being forced into going along for this particular ride. But his dread refused to allow him to bask in that enjoyment. That dread was a cold, slimy thing, hanging over his shoulders, reminding him of just how difficult this project was going to be.

His anger at House had yet to abate. It would take a long time before the hurt and misgivings over Amber's death would deign to settle in beside the other lesser hurts in his life. But he would need to tuck that animosity away for awhile. Discipline was key. Dragging House to Lexington against his will was being done, not for House's own good, but out of respect for his mother.

Wilson had called Blythe House to offer his condolences. When she asked if he might be driving down with Greg for the proceedings, Wilson didn't hesitate to tell her yes. It didn't matter that every ounce of his being was screaming liar, liar, pants on fire. He wasn't about to disappoint Blythe. She had been through too much in her life to be forced to deal with House's issues and selfishness.

And House needed to do right by his mother. With Cuddy's help, Wilson would make sure he damn well would.

After the sedative took effect, Feeno, the male nurse huge enough to moonlight as a Sumo wrestler, lifted House off the floor as easily as one would pick up a baby. He deposited the drugged diagnostician in a wheelchair and followed behind Cuddy like a Japanese manservant. She bypassed the main elevator banks and wheeled House into the service car. They descended to the lower level, where the ambulances were parked, keeping the curiosity seekers to a minimum.

"I hope we're doing the right thing," Cuddy said to Wilson as Feeno deposited House gently in the passenger seat of the Volvo. After fastening House's seatbelt, the nurse gave Cuddy a little bow, then returned to work.

"House is an ass. He deserves this." Wilson hardly even glanced at the subject of his ire, whose head had lolled over to one side. He was snoring gently, which, for some inexplicable reason, irritated Wilson more than anything. "I'll call you," he said, twisting the key in the ignition with a bit more force than was necessary.

After the sedative wore off and the shock and irritation at being spirited away eased, House's demeanor did a three-sixty, which didn't quite sit well with Wilson. House was a crafty sonofabitch, not one to simply sit back and take what was thrown at him. There would be trouble, miles of rough, storm battered terrain to cross before this trip was done.

Wilson steeled himself for the worst.

For now, House appeared content. He discovered a blues station on the vast wasteland that was Siriusville, which gave him reason to spout his vast knowledge of the genre and offer impromptu musical interludes. Alternately he would growl guitar riffs and whine harmonica solos, which left Wilson somewhat secretly amused.

But Wilson didn't care if House shook his booty out the passenger window. This was not a pleasure cruise and Wilson refused to admit he was even semi interested in House's ramblings, no matter how interesting they were.

The radio was a distraction for about as long as it took to find a rest stop and gas up. There, House began the game of 'I don' wanna go', batting Wilson's hand with his cane, causing the car keys to fly into a grate. Anything to lose time and delay the inevitable.

Later, when a police car appeared in the rearview, House jammed his cane against the accelerator, causing the car's speed to accelerate way past the legal limit. They were pulled in for speeding...and for a seventeen year old arrest warrant against Wilson that had never been taken care of. But Wilson, much to House's chagrin, managed to dodge the bullet at the police station (it seemed House's father's funeral pulled a lot more weight with the sheriff than an ancient arrest warrant for disorderly conduct).

The game was not yet over. After the novelty of the radio and the side trip to the pokey dimmed, House turned sullen. His half smile turned into a full-on frown, his brow furrowed. Still, the crafty, secretive gleam in his eyes outshone the waning afternoon sun.

Dangerous...

A billboard looming over the two lane highway announced that Frosty Freeze really did have tasty, cool treats at the next exit. The glow in House's eyes brightened to a klieg like intensity. Turning his head toward Wilson, House tapped his fingers against the door frame.

No, no...NO!

"I want ice cream," House said, breaking his forty-five minutes of silence. The music was turned low. The motor thrummed like a determined beast on its way to a much anticipated kill.

"Too bad," Wilson replied. "Tough it out."

"You've got me down to one Vicodin at a time, doling them out when you decide it's right. I'm being forced to go to the funeral of an abusive, cantankerous brute who wasn't even my real father."

"He was."

"He wasn't. I know it."

"You're out of your mind."

"And now...you won't even stop for ice cream."

"If I stop this car it will be because I have no choice. Not because you have a damn yen for--"

A wraith, seemingly inspired by this current altercation, flew at them from the driver's side, slamming into the Volvo's grill before being propelled by metal and momentum into the woods.

The Volvo shuddered its response, as flummoxed as its passengers. Hands trembling, Wilson somehow managed to turned the wheel, steering the car over to the shoulder as it rumbled to a stop. Something was missing. Where was the screech of rubber against asphalt? Or the howls of fear, the blurted obscenities, the gasps, the 'omigods' ? The scene was eerily quiet, unusually calm.

"Woah," Wilson shook his head, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.

Beside him House let out a single grunt as he blinked at the ruined hood.

Something out there hissed, sizzled and died.

They sat very still, watching steam escape from the crumpled mass of metal for what seemed like a very long time.

"What was that?" House shivered.

"It was a deer. What the hell do you think it was? A ghost?"

"Maybe."

"Deer run out in front of cars all the time. It's lucky we're not dead."

"Dead," House muttered, fixing Wilson with a helpless look. "You think it's dead?"

"It doesn't...are you okay?" Wilson continued to stare out the window at the greyish-white emission swirling off into the purple dusk.

"You think it's dead?" House asked again, glancing over his shoulder toward the woods. There was nothing to see but black, grey and moss green foliage as the night descended over the forest like a shroud.

"I don't know." Wilson was yelling now as he wrenched his phone from his jacket pocket. "Are you okay?"

"No." There was not a hint of a smirk or one of those self satisfied grins, which was always good for making Wilson bite his inner cheek in frustration.

"Are you hurt?"

House blinked again, three times in quick succession, as though he had just been jolted from a dream.

"Pop the trunk," he said.

"Why?"

"Gotta get something."

"What could you possibly have to get?"

House's response began with a hapless look. "I'm thirsty. You stashed the water back there so I wouldn't drink up and have an excuse to stop for an unscheduled pee break. Remember?"

With a defeated sigh, Wilson popped the trunk.

Gripping his cane, House pushed open the door and wandered the grassy area. Lost was the word that came to Wilson's mind as he watched House meander toward the edge of the woods before backtracking to the Volvo's trunk.

What could be worse? Could this possibly get any worse? Wilson pressed the phone to his ear and explained the problem in a calm, succinct manner to the 911 operator. After turning on the blinkers, he exited the car with great care, watching for that single heedless motorist to mow him down and end it all right here.

Maybe this is your destiny.

Maybe not, he thought, surveying the damage. The smashed front end of the car resembled an accordion, or perhaps its evil little cousin, the concertina. Coolant pooled around the tires and flowed into the grass.

Fuck!

Steam had ceased rising from the engine...or perhaps not; he couldn't really tell. Night was good at working its magic, playing mind tricks; enshrouded in shadows and illuminated by the intermittent rush of headlights, things weren't always as they seemed. He squinted at the road, toward the lucky ones with their able bodied vehicles, swishing by him on the cool asphalt, on their way to hearth, home...or perhaps a barroom.

He pulled out his wallet and found his Triple-A card, gave the guys a call, telling the story again, giving the approximate location, last exit...Frosty Freeze sign.

Damn that Frosty Freeze sign! Maybe they should have stopped for ice cream. They might have cheated fate.

No, he wouldn't have been that lucky. If it hadn't been this fiasco, they would have been dealt a different, equally as unfortunate hand. There were a million ways that Chance, the old trickster, could muck things up. And Wilson knew from experience how danger lingered just about everywhere you went. Step off a curb, get hit by a truck. Walk down the street, get bashed on the head by an errant steel beam. Danger was a watchful, eager adversary.

Danger.

In the trunk lived a sturdy, bright yellow rechargeable flashlight. Wilson brought two along, 'just in case'

(danger!)

and this was the sibling of one that had gone the way of most plastic things. At the rest stop, House had dumped unfortunate brother lamp down the grate after the car keys. Just to waste more time. With a little finesse and a wire hanger, Wilson was able to retrieve the keys. But the lamp appeared cracked and muddied and way beyond repair. It didn't seem worth trying his luck to raise it from the mire.

He wrenched open the trunk and shoved stuff around, a cooler, two overnight bags, one of which he had packed for House. Spare tire, crowbar. Water.

No lamp.

Everybody lies. Yeah, House. You sure as hell do.

With a grunt, he slammed the trunk shut and took one tremulous calming breath, knowing just what would greet him when he whipped his head toward the woods.

A single ray of light shone through the trees, poking and prodding, finding its way, touching the leaves, tree trunks, the mossy earth.

"House!" Wilson yelled, the sound of his voice was swallowed up by the rush of traffic. It didn't matter. He shouted the liar's name over and over until the police arrived along with the tow truck.

Biting his lip, Wilson primed himself to stay calm, to be adult, to not fly off in a fit of rage toward the light that was going away now, deeper and deeper into the murk.

Damn him. Damn him! DAMN him!

By the time Wilson finished giving Officer Tyler the particulars of the crash, forty-five minutes had passed. The Volvo had been rolled onto a flatbed tow truck; the friendly Triple-A guy would have been more than happy to give him a ride back to town but Wilson was unable to take advantage of the kindness. Well, he could have, but that would have meant abandoning House, which House wouldn't have had a problem with at all. A resourceful ass, he would find a way back to town and then hightail it back to Jersey.

"So where is your...traveling companion, Dr. Wilson?" Tyler still had his little memo pad out, pen point tapping the paper as if at any moment it might supply an insight as to why nothing was ever permitted to go smoothly. After all, that pen had seen a lot of life, tagging along while Officer Tyler did his job.

"He...went off into the woods." Rubbing his neck, Wilson gazed off into the ether; he preferred not bearing the brunt of the officer's ire, which was certain to arrive shortly. Up 'til now, Tyler had been a nice guy. Patient. Cool. But things were going to get sticky. Now House would be the focus of attention. The word batshit came to mind. Topsy-turvy. The cookie farm...

Surprisingly, Tyler remained calm, jotting the occasional note on his pad.

(...insane guy in the woods...dangerous...call for backup...)

"He went to check on the deer."

"Probably," Wilson said, surprised. He forced himself to meet the officer's eyes.

"They do that sometimes. People." Tyler shook his head. "They're glad to be alive but sorry the animal bought it." The pen tapped, tapped, tapped as if in absolute agreement.

"I don't think that's why he's gone to look at the thing."

"Oh, no?" Officer Tyler tucked his memo pad into his pocket. Wilson was somehow comforted by this. It meant the ordeal might be coming to a close.

Or maybe not.

"Your friend needs to leave here, Dr. Wilson. Animal control is on the way to put the deer down, if it isn't already dead."

Turning toward the woods, Wilson caught the intermittent wink of the flashlight through the trees. It was just like House to taunt him. I'm still here...nyah, nyah, nyah! Wilson clenched and unclenched his fists, his frustration doing a slow boil. "Could you give me a few minutes?"

"I can't stop 'em once they get here." Tyler shrugged. "But I'll be glad to stick around, give you both a lift back to town. Can't have you guys hitchhiking." His laughter whistled like air being pressed out of a pinhole in a balloon, fading quickly as Wilson tromped toward the murky brush.

The forest was in a state of disrepair. It had obviously had been disturbed by something other than a stiff breeze. Tree branches were thrown here and there like an angry giant had lumbered through, tearing open a path where none existed before. Headlights illuminated the scene to some degree but straight ahead was a darkness so deep, Wilson would have believed it was a black hole, ready to suck him into its blissful nothingness.

Now why did that sound like a plan?

From somewhere he heard movement: a shuffling, a breath...then a groan.

"House?"

Wilson sensed them before he saw them, a shadow on the forest floor and a more imposing figure at its side. The two were joined somehow, the darkness a conduit extending from one being to the other.

"Come on. It's getting cold," Wilson said quietly, calmly. "The cop's going to give us a ride to town. We'll have to rent a car-"

"It's still alive."

Wilson drew nearer but his progress was impeded as he stumbled over...something. He swore as he regained his footing, then reached down to find the culprit. His fingers brushed plastic, glass. The lamp.

He picked it up, flicked it on and shone the light toward the shadows joined at the hip. What he saw made him step back, his mind clickity clacking down the track as he attempted to make sense of this surreal display.

"Why are you here?" House sat on the ground, his eyes narrowed, his face drawn into a scowl. "Go back to the wreck."

"What...are you doing?"

House had positioned himself by the deer's head. His right leg stuck out straight while his left was bent at the knee; his cane lay abandoned and alone in the middle of a garden of toadstools. No way was he comfortable but he didn't seem to care.

Blood had pooled around the animal's mouth and saturated the surrounding area of ground, turning the sparse grass and pine needles scarlet-black. Wilson couldn't help notice how House's hands and jacket were dappled with the same color. The same blood.

"Go...away."

The deer blinked as if throwing its two cents in. For the first time, Wilson noticed the animal's labored breathing, how its side rose and fell in little hitches and starts.

"House..." Wilson grimaced as he knelt. A smell of damp earth and moss conspired with the sour stench of blood to overwhelm him. At any moment they might pull him into the same strange abyss House inhabited now.

You don't want that...

"They're coming soon. They have to take care of this."

House returned his attention to the deer, its breathing becoming more rapid and ragged, little snorts and grunts escaped through its nose and blood caked mouth. "I'm not leaving until it's done."

"They have to shoot it. You know that."

"I'll stay."

"They won't let you."

House's jaw worked as he appeared to mull this over. When he faced Wilson again, his eyes shone with determination and something else, a look that said nothing short of brute force was going to stop him from getting his way.

The look frightened Wilson, causing his heart to lurch. He shivered more from dread than the temperature's rapid descent.

"You're making things difficult by being unreasonable." Wilson meant to sound gently persuasive but the words tumbled out rough and caustic and mean.

"I don't have a choice," House muttered, touching the deer's neck with two fingers. The animal shuddered and closed its eyes.

Behind them, brusque and purposeful footfalls drew near, boot heels snapping twigs as delicate as sparrow bones. A squawk of a radio alerted anyone within earshot that another deer had been hit east of Market Village.

Where the hell was Market Village? Somewhere far away...

Wilson turned to watch the arrival of two somber faced men moving through the brush: the taller, more muscular of the pair held a rifle, swinging it easily, its butt bouncing gently off his thigh. His crew cut shone moon white under the lamp's power.

The slimmer, sandy haired one's jaw worked as he chewed his gum. "You two are going to have to leave here." The light glinting off the silvery metal of his badge revealed his name as McCready.

House's fingers lingered just above the deer's sternum.

"You hear me?" McCready raised his voice just a smidge, peppering his tone with a warning.

Wilson dug his fists in his pocket and kicked at the dirt with his heel. "Could you give us a minute?"

"Why?" Shifting from one foot to the other, McCready looked like he suddenly needed to pee.

"He's just..." Wilson shook his head, any reasonable excuse evading him.

"Hey, buddy, You okay?" The gunman's badge was a little more difficult to see, the letters fading into the shadows spelling either Sampo or Sampson or..."

Does it matter?

"He just needs a minute." Wilson indicated House with a nervous flick of his hand.

A radio squawked. The deer shuddered, his back legs jerked twice and then were still.

House leaned on one hand, shifting in the dirt. His head turned slowly toward the two men whose patience, if their tight expressions were any indication, was quickly running out. "There's no need to shoot him. He's dead."

"You need to get out of here," Sampo prodded a few errant twigs with the gun barrel. "Now."

Extending one hand toward House, Wilson said, "Come on, we should go."

A moment passed and then another. House sighed, giving the the deer's neck one final, hesitant stroke. Glowering, he reached past Wilson's hand for his cane, then, with wobbly determination, managed to lever himself to his feet.

Shrugging off Wilson's steadying grip, he headed out of the woods, away from the smells of animal blood, of mouldering vegetation, of fear and death. Behind him, Wilson followed, moving somberly past the animal control officers without apologizing for House. There was nothing to apologize for.

As much as Wilson wanted to get on with this trip (which was turning into more of a series of mind numbing challenges than a journey), he wasn't looking forward to the upcoming rigamarole: repairing the Volvo, renting a car, getting House to where he really needed to be.

At the edge of the woods, House stopped and tipped his head back to survey the stars.

"Let's go, House." With a snort, Wilson moved past him, frustration grinding in his gut, making him less than sympathetic.

Officer Tyler was waiting, his squad car lights rotating in cherry-red silence. Cigarette smoke drifted from the driver's side window. Tyler didn't seem in much of a hurry. Still...

Still...

Wilson turned, not surprised to see House standing with his head lowered now, his hands pushed deep in his jacket pockets. Waiting.

When the rifle shots came, they arrived as a pair, like a couple dashing in late to the party. Their reports were quick and clipped, causing House's shoulders to jerk, as if the bullets had torn through a vital part of him as well.

After it was over, he headed for the car, pushing past Wilson without a look or a word.

It was an hour, Wilson surmised, they would never speak of again. An instance relegated to the 'don't go there' neighborhood: a part of town that was becoming more populated all the time. Pretty soon, Phase Two would be under construction. Always room for more, he supposed.

Officer Tyler had been a true mensch, blaring his siren as he raced them to the nearest Alamo rental car office, depositing them at the entrance minutes before it closed. Wilson had been effusive in his thanks, while House muttered something about 'shit happening' as he wandered into the brightly lit front office.

The perky middle-aged woman at the counter chirped that yes, in fact, they did have a Volvo available. Did Dr. Wilson mind silver?

This indeed was Providence. Maybe, Wilson mused as he plunked down his credit card and accepted the car keys, he was finally going to catch a break.

It didn't matter that House was sulking. His friend's head was bowed low as he sat on the hard beige chair in the corner of the office. Beside him, his cane leaned against the wall like a sentry waiting for orders.

Wilson refused to fret over House's sullen mood. A good deal of that moodiness was for show. But there was a sliver of his moroseness that was genuine, brought about by a combination of leg pain and the deer's death. Being trundled off to a place he absolutely did not want to go might have had something to do with it too.

At this point, Wilson couldn't muster up the strength to care.

After signing all the forms and informing House they were ready, Wilson headed to the side of the building where the Volvo waited. To his surprise, House followed with a minimum of grousing, settling himself in the passenger seat without a word.

As he drove, Wilson opted for news over music on Sirius; mulling over the world's troubles instead of his own would make for an interesting change. House didn't object. He faced the window; the illumination from the streetlights flowed like liquid shadows over his his cheeks and brow.

It wasn't long before Wilson spied a Motel 6 set back on a rise overlooking the two lane road. He pulled into the parking area, despite House's obscenity peppered objections that the place was a dive. Wilson would not be deterred from his plan, informing House that the place was fucking good enough for one night and he could sleep in the car if the damn place didn't suit him.

Somber and silent, House followed along and spent the rest of the night alternately clicking through fifty channels of nothing and staring out the window.

In the morning, they hit the road again. Before leaving, Wilson discarded House's blood speckled shirt and jeans in a Dumpster behind the motel, despite House's objections. They were his, House shouted in the lobby, not caring who heard his rant, and he could damn well keep them if he damn well wanted to.

"You are not getting your way this time," Wilson said. "No way are you going to have bloody clothes in your bag. Not when you're going to see your mother and pay your last respects to your father."

"She wouldn't know," House whined. "He wouldn't know."

Wilson made a fist and pounded the back of the lobby sofa, much to the chagrin of the desk clerk. He didn't give a shit about the looks he was getting or the ache in his palm or the vein in House's left temple throbbing its vicious retort. "I would know," he rasped. "And that's what fucking matters."

They drove on. The Sirius blues channel blared music that got under Wilson's skin today, but seemed to keep House's in an even, quietly jovial mood. Little Walter, Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters supplied the balm. Their gritty down-low stories of cheatin' and lyin' and stealin' and losin' seemed just the thing to banish House's demons to another dimension.

But it wasn't as if House had a change of heart regarding the colonel's funeral. Two further attempts were made to thwart Wilson's mission. They were surprisingly half-hearted; neither shone with House's usual inspired creativity. Was leaving Wilson's shaving kit behind at a rest area the best House could do? Ants in his latte?

Lame.

They were an hour out of Lexington when Wilson pulled into the parking lot of a Hardee's.

House raised a brow as the motor died. "Good. You're sick of this too. We can we turn back now, hit some strip clubs on the way home, find some hookers. You're buying."

Tapping a ragged rhythm against the steering wheel, Wilson chose his words with great care. "I need to know what that was about."

House stared at him and Wilson could sense House's upbeat mood heading off into the horizon.

"You know what I'm asking," Wilson continued.

"It doesn't matter what you're asking...or why."

Wilson banged the wheel with the heel of his hand. "Damn you."

"Why are you putting your mission on hold to play twenty questions?" House said. "You're damn lucky to have gotten me this far."

"I'm talking about the deer."

Huffing out a breath, House slumped in his seat, his mouth twisting in annoyance. His eyes shifted from Wilson's and focused instead on the red and yellow Hardee's sign.

"So you don't want to talk about the deer," Wilson said.

Expecting a vitriolic barb in response, Wilson narrowed his eyes slightly as he watched and waited. What he got for his trouble was Silence, thick and deep as a plush swatch of carpet.

His shoulders tensed as he continued. "You don't want to talk about it because the fact of that animal's mortality hit you like a ball peen hammer in the temple."

Yeah, what the heck? Let it all out. What do you have to lose that you haven't already lost?

"The deer nearly killed us. But you didn't care about that. What did irk you was that fact that you couldn't save it. The only thing you could do was sit and keep watch until it died."

Beneath the stubble, House's face went white. His lips thinned as he stared at the early afternoon lunch crowd entering the restaurant. Midday hunger brought them here for the purpose of stuffing themselves with fries, burgers and shakes. The artery clogging fare was so tempting, so good. Who cared that it would send them off to their rewards that much sooner...

"You couldn't do it for your dad." Wilson's let out a long breath, waiting for the rebuff, the acid tinged comeback.

House shifted in his seat. His eyes bore into Wilson's like he was searching for something: a solution to some irksome conundrum that would forever stay unsolved.

"Are you done?"

"Yes." Wilson's fingers fidgeted on the wheel.

"Then drive the damn car," he said. "My mother will give you hell if we're late."

Wilson waited for more, hoping for confirmation that his observations were on the mark. But House refused to oblige, focusing instead on the throng of Hardee's devotees, gifting them with a glower as he steeped himself in silence again.

Don't take it personal, son, It's how he treats all the well meaning fools who try to lend a hand.

With a sniff, Wilson twisted the ignition and put the car in drive. Before tapping the gas, he pulled the Vicodin vial from his jacket pocket and tossed it into House's lap.

Well, heck, that got him good,didn't it. Look at those eyes--wide and round as saucers, his mouth falling open, fixing you with that classic dumbfounded look.

As Wilson pulled into traffic, he heard the experimental shake of the pills, the pop! of the cap, two, three, perhaps four of the beauties being shaken into a waiting, grateful palm.

Frown deepening, he pulled into the fast lane and turned his thoughts to other things.

He was jolted from his reverie by a blues guitar riff exploding from the speakers, causing the air to shimmer, the floor to vibrate. The music wailed and whined. Now House was pounding his fist against his knee, growling the words, like they were some sort of mantra against all the ills of the world. Yeah! The mighty power of those down and dirty sentiments was sure to make everything alright again.

Wilson shrugged and bit his lip, figuring if he tried real hard, he could make himself believe it too.