Chapter 4: Clinic - The Orange Man
Looking at David being dragged away by House, Foreman scoffed and said to Chase beside him:
"What's so special about this guy? Why does House value him so much?"
Chase smiled knowingly:
"It's not necessarily that House thinks he's special. Being cocky isn't a good trait in a first-year intern.
House is probably trying to knock him down a peg or two.
The bizarre patients in clinic duty are obviously the perfect tool for that.
Even if David has solid book knowledge from med school, when facing clinic patients, experience matters way more than theory."
Foreman nodded in agreement:
"Makes sense. Clinic patients are the absolute worst to deal with.
They're convinced they're dying when there's nothing wrong with them at all!
No wonder House has been dodging clinic hours like the plague. It's enough to drive you insane.
This David kid will probably come running out begging House for help within minutes."
Chase chuckled:
"Minutes? Let's make it interesting. Ten bucks says he doesn't even make it past the first patient.
People who actually manage to get appointments with Dr. House are notoriously difficult.
I bet the first one sends him running."
"You're on."
David, sitting in for House, soon welcomed his first patient.
This was a middle-aged man whose entire body had turned orange.
Judging by his tailored suit, Rolex watch, and Italian leather shoes, he was clearly successful and wealthy.
After sitting down, the guy kept fidgeting with the diamond ring on his finger, radiating insecurity about his marriage.
David, familiar with this case from the show, naturally knew this guy's background.
The man had married a model wife ten years his junior.
He was approaching middle age with declining... performance, while his wife was in her sexual prime.
So naturally, he had some anxieties.
After all, when needs aren't being met, people tend to look elsewhere for satisfaction.
As David's mind wandered, the middle-aged man finished explaining how he'd accidentally fallen while playing golf yesterday.
He insisted that his current body aches were from the fall, without mentioning his skin discoloration at all.
"Dr. House, is my condition serious?"
David shook his head and pointed to the ID badge on his white coat:
"I'm not Dr. House, I'm Dr. Wells—"
Before David could finish, the middle-aged man shot to his feet angrily, jabbing his finger at David's badge:
"I knew something was off! Dr. House wouldn't be some baby-faced kid!
I pulled every string I had to get an appointment with House, not to be practice material for some wet-behind-the-ears intern!
Where's your attending? I want to file a complaint with administration!"
As the man got more agitated, the orange tint on his face became even more pronounced.
He looked exactly like a ripe tangerine.
David, who hadn't undergone any professional poker-face training, finally couldn't suppress his laughter.
The middle-aged man, who was about to storm out, suddenly froze, spun around, and glared at David with a warning:
"I don't know what you think is so damn funny, but you realize you're about to be unemployed, right?!"
David grinned and picked up a small hand mirror from the desk, sliding it across to him.
"This wet-behind-the-ears intern happens to know exactly what's wrong with you. You sure you don't want to hear it?"
The man grabbed the mirror skeptically and looked at his reflection.
When he saw the deep orange color covering his face, his jaw literally dropped.
Pure panic flooded his features—the orange terrified him!
He immediately forgot about the complaint and rushed back, asking frantically:
"What... what's wrong with me?! Do I have something serious?"
Just as David was about to answer, a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his brain.
His face contorted immediately, and cold sweat instantly soaked through the back of his white coat. It took several seconds before he could recover.
Seeing this reaction, the man panicked even more:
"What's wrong? What do I have? Dr. Wells, I'm sorry about earlier, I was out of line.
Just please tell me—am I... am I... am I dying?"
David wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, swallowed back waves of nausea, and replied with a pale face:
"It's nothing. My issue, not yours. I skipped breakfast this morning and my blood sugar's probably low.
Your problem is actually much bigger than just turning orange.
Because it's one thing for you not to notice your own skin changing color gradually, but if your wife—who sleeps right next to you—hasn't noticed either?
That means your wife doesn't give a damn about you.
So I'd suggest going home and checking whether your assets have been transferred, whether she's having an affair."
"What?!"
The man looked like he'd been punched in the gut, rage practically burning in his eyes.
Because David's words had just shattered his carefully maintained illusion.
"Oh, and have you been eating a lot of carrots and taking vitamin supplements lately?"
The man froze, then nodded automatically.
"Beta-carotene will turn you yellow, and the niacin in those vitamins will turn you red. Mix them together and you get orange.
If you don't believe me, go home and check a color wheel.
Anyway, I've got something I need to handle. I'm out. If you're still worried, you can wait for Dr. House to see you himself."
With that, David stood up and pushed through the exam room door, ignoring the man's stunned expression.
As he stepped out, David nearly collided with House, who was returning from an extended "bathroom break" to actually cover his clinic hours.
House did a double-take seeing David's ashen appearance:
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Nothing, probably ate something off this morning. Need to hit the bathroom."
After that casual brush-off, David hurried toward the intensive care unit.
House watched David's retreating figure, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
David couldn't worry about House's suspicions right now.
A massive sense of dread had seized his heart.
He understood that these symptoms were all clinical manifestations of his glioblastoma.
His brief period of feeling normal had almost made him forget he was a terminal brain cancer patient.
Only now did he remember that his predecessor had frantically used recreational drugs to numb his sensory nerves and suppress the tumor pain.
Now, those substances had worn off.
The pain from the brain tumor was returning like a tidal wave.
Currently, the only way to alleviate the pain was to extend his lifespan!
Calculating the timing, Rebecca—whose condition had temporarily improved after the high-dose dexamethasone—would soon experience the catastrophic side effects of the steroid treatment!
That would bring her to death's door again!
But this was also David's second opportunity!
Cameron, who was asking Rebecca how she felt after taking the dexamethasone, looked up in confusion as David burst through the door:
"David? You're back already? Is clinic over?"
Chase, who was also taking notes nearby, grinned when he saw David and shot a knowing glance at Foreman.
Foreman shook his head and handed a ten-dollar bill to Chase.
At the same time, he said to David:
"Man, you're such a disappointment.
I know clinic patients are tough, but you should've been able to handle at least two or three, right?
You couldn't even manage one? And you look like hell?"
David, whose temples were pounding violently, had no time to argue about the clinic.
He ignored Foreman's jab and looked directly at Rebecca, who was sitting up in bed.
At that moment, Rebecca was tilting her head back, staring blankly at the ceiling, her expression filled with panic:
"I can't see anything."
Author's Note: The progression of all illnesses in this story will be accelerated for pacing purposes. Cases won't drag on for weeks or months like in real life—that would be impossible to write engagingly. Just clarifying this upfront to prevent confusion.
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