The area they were heading for was mostly small parks and apartment buildings, not far from the Princeton shopping centre. Foreman peered at street numbers, scowling a bit at House's question. It was habit, after the last three years, to come at House's call. He wasn't about to say that, though, and invite more lapdog comments. And he certainly wasn't going to bring up the fact that Cuddy would want him along, because House was clearly plotting something. Foreman would be lucky if it wasn't illegal--and his luck hadn't been the best, lately. "How's the kid with Schilder's?" he asked instead. He already knew the answer--the boy was improving on the treatment they'd started. But that should be answer enough: he came, because House might have a new mystery to offer. That was why he hadn't applied for jobs in neurology departments, where he'd still be seen as an asset despite his firing. He'd grown too attached to diagnostics.

When he found number 632, he parked the car across the street. Twisting around in his seat, he was about to ask House--again, and probably just as uselessly--why they were here. Which was when he saw the mess House had wiped all over his leather interior. "House--" He clamped his mouth shut and got out, yanking open the back door. Before House could push his way out of the car, Foreman leaned over him, taking the paper napkin out of the bag and blotting at the mess of ketchup and apple goo. Too late, he could already tell it was going to stain. "Christ." He threw the napkin on House's lap and backed out of the car, standing up and shaking his head. "Can we get this over with? Whatever the hell it is."