Chapter 22: Virus
The hospital had been consumed by a low-grade fever of its own.
Two days after the parking garage, and the sterile halls of Princeton-Plainsboro were swollen, overheated, and ringing with the sounds of human distress. A swim meet at the local high school had turned into a petri dish; now over six hundred people, convinced they were dying, clogged every available space. The air tasted of bleach, sweat, and panic.
Y/n moved through the chaos on the main floor, her height giving her a sightline over the sea of flushed faces. Her side was a knot of dull pain, a constant companion. She’d been pulling double shifts in Trauma for forty-eight hours, a penance for her deal with the board, and now this. Every cough from the crowd made her own ribs twinge in sympathy.
She spotted her brother near the clinic admissions desk. He was leaning on his cane, looking profoundly bored as a woman babbled about her son’s headache.
“He’s seventeen, he’s got a headache because he’s seventeen and an idiot,” House muttered, not looking up from the game on his phone. “Next.”
“House.”
Cuddy’s voice cut through the din. She materialized from the throng, Wilson at her elbow like a dutiful, worried shadow. She looked exhausted, a strand of dark hair escaping her usually perfect bun.
“We need all hands. This is not a request. You, Foreman, Chase, Y/n—you’re on primary triage. Wilson’s coordinating labs. Anyone with neck stiffness, photophobia, fever over 103, you send upstairs. Anyone who just has a sore throat from screaming for their kid to swim faster, you discharge. I don’t care how loud they cry.”
House didn’t look up from his phone. “Triage is for people who can’t tell the difference between meningitis and a bad attitude. I have a differential diagnosis of ‘mass hysteria’ with a side of ‘wasted afternoon.’ My team has actual thinking to do.”
“Your team is down a member,” Cuddy shot back, her eyes flicking to Y/n for a fraction of a second. “And until Cameron officially returns—if she returns—you’re a man short. So consider this manpower allocation.”
The mention of Cameron was a small, sharp pinch under Y/n’s sternum. She hadn’t seen her. Hadn’t gotten a text. The ‘I’ll think about it’ was hanging in a silent vacuum. Y/n kept her face neutral, scanning the intake form a nurse handed her.
“Fine,” House said, with the theatrical sigh of a martyr. “But I’m not touching anyone. I’m a consultant. I consult.” He limped toward the row of temporary cubicles, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a sniper looking for a worthwhile target.
The work was mind-numbing. A brutal, assembly-line processing of fear. Y/n stood beside Foreman at a station, the two of them falling into a grim, efficient rhythm.
“Open wide. Say ‘ah.’ Look at the light. Does this hurt?” Foreman’s voice was a monotone. He was good at this, methodical and detached.
Y/n was faster, her assessments blunt. “You’re fine. Go home, drink fluids. Next.” She dismissed a man who started to argue. “Your headache is from dehydration and regret. The hospital can’t cure either. Next.”
From the adjacent cubicle, they could hear House. His approach was… different.
A teenager sat sniffling. “My neck is kinda stiff.”
“From looking down at your phone for eight hours a day,” House said, not even examining him. “Did you kiss anyone at this swim meet?”
“What? No!”
“Then you probably don’t have bacterial meningitis. Congratulations, you’re mundane. Get out.”
Chase was trying to actually be thorough, but the pressure was making him sloppy. Y/n watched him miss the faint petechial rash on a woman’s ankle because he was rushing. She stepped over.
“Chase. Her ankles.”
He looked, his eyes widening slightly. “Right. Ma’am, we need to get you upstairs.” He shot Y/n a tight, grateful nod. She just went back to her station.
For an hour, it was a torrent of sore throats and anxiety. Then House’s voice changed. Y/n heard it from three cubicles down—a shift from bored malice to genuine interest.
“Wait. Stop crying for a second.”
Y/n glanced over. House was leaning in, now ignoring his phone. A girl, maybe nineteen, was trembling in the chair. She was pale, but not fever-flushed. Her friend hovered nearby.
“You said dizziness. During the meet?”
“Y-yeah. In the locker room after. I thought I was just tired from the butterfly…”
“Butterfly. Right.” House’s eyes were lit up. The puzzle had arrived. “Any blurred vision? Not from crying, I mean actually blurry.”
The girl hesitated, then gave a small nod.
House straightened up, his boredom vaporized. “Cuddy!” he barked. “Found one! Not meningitis. Something else. Dibs.”
He was already limping away, pointing at the girl. “Chase, Foreman, with me. We’re admitting her. The rest of this pedestrian plague is yours.”
Cuddy threw her hands up, but she didn’t stop him. A real, interesting case was the only thing that ever did.
As House and the team swept the confused girl toward the elevators, Cuddy approached Y/n’s station.
“He’s going to need a new fellow. Cameron’s leave is… indefinite. I’ve got three candidates coming in tomorrow. I need you to sit in on the interviews.”
Y/n felt the pinch again, deeper this time. “I’m running Trauma.”
“And you’re his sister. You know what he needs, even if he fights it.” Cuddy’s tone softened, just a hair. “I know you talked to her. I appreciate the effort. But this is the reality now.”
Y/n just nodded, turning back to the next patient in line—a man coughing wetly into his hand. “Open your mouth.”
The rest of the shift bled into a blur of throats and thermometers. By the time the clock ticked over, the crowd had thinned, funneled upstairs or out the doors. The hallways were littered with discarded water cups and crumpled tissues.
Y/n’s pager buzzed as she was finally washing her hands, the soap stinging a small cut on her knuckle. It was a text from an unknown number.
It’s Allison. I’m okay. I needed a few days. I saw the news about the outbreak. I hope you’re not shouldering it all. – AC
Y/n stared at the screen, the water running hot over her wrists. She typed a quick reply, her thumbs feeling clumsy.
Outbreak handled. Mostly sniffles. House found a shiny new toy. Interviews for your seat tomorrow.
The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. No response.
Y/n dried her hands, the coarse paper towel rasping against her skin. She walked out into the now-quiet hallway. From the second floor, she could hear the distant, familiar sound of House holding court in a patient’s room, his voice sharp with the thrill of the hunt.
Cameron was gone. For now, maybe for good. The machine had to keep running. She headed for the elevator, the echo of her own footsteps the only answer she was going to get.