All language subtitles for House.MD.S01E10.EnSub.BD720p_SharePirate

Hi.

Sounds like a good party.

Twenty bucks.
Okay, no problem.

I, uh, just--
I got it in here somewhere.

Oh, you know, I'm--

I'm sorry. I guess I must have
forgotten to go to the machine.

Yeah,
and brush your teeth.

Lady, you don't have two cents.

Well, I can-- I can get it from--
from my friend who's inside.

He can give it to me,
and then I'll bring it back out to you.
You don't know anybody here.

Yes, I do. James. He's blond,
and he's really friendly,
and he's a big talker.

I need to see him.

Go on in.

James?

James?

James?
Hi.

Do you know where James is?

Oh, yeah, he's--
he's around here somewhere.

Let's go find him.

James?
Do you know where James is?

Where is James?

James? James?

James? James?

- Oh, yeah, he's --
he's around here somewhere.
- Where is he?

Please.
I really need to find him.

What are you doing?

Bitch!

No! She's trying to help me!

Get off her! Get off me!

Settle down!

Move!

Geez.
I didn't touch her.

Great.
Now we gotta go to a hospital.

Homeless. Admitted 24 hours ago
with a suspected drug overdose.

Her tox screen's clean,
but she's still delusional.

"Homeless".
Usually means crazy, no money.

Cuddy's not gonna be--
We're a teaching hospital.

No ID. Doesn't even
seem to know her name.

I got called in because of
some lesions on her arm.

Homeless always means no roof.
Leads to too much sun.
No, the lesions were noncancerous.

But I noticed a twitch.
Her wrist.

You feel that?

Sure. I'm human.

Make a fist around my fingers
as tight as you can.

Squeeze.
I am.

All right.

Raise your arms
above your head for me.

She's seizing.

- Get me some Ativan.
- She doesn't wanna be discharged.
She's manipulating you.

It's real.
Check a finger stick.

- Blood sugar's 38.
- I need D-50 I.V. push, stat.

Fake low blood sugar.
Now, that's acting.

The blood sugar was real.

She's probably diabetic.
O.D.'d on her own insulin.

Room 2032.
Do you have her effects out here?

Look, a seizure buys her a place to sleep
while the nice doctors run their tests.

Maybe a few free meals.

Twenty bucks
says there's insulin in there.

Oh! Wow.
Put this back, please.

What about the twitch?
Her arm moved.

Why fake a twitch?
In case the seizure was too subtle?

The twitch could indicate a tumor,
which could indicate--

A need to see a neurologist,
which is why you called me.

Keep an eye on her till 2:00 p.m.
Watch her blood sugar,
give her a nice hot lunch.

Then discharge her.

- He's wrong.
- Foreman is wrong?

The neurologist is wrong
about a neurological problem.

He took one look at her
and figured it was a scam.

So you figure
he's not being objective.

House, the woman had a twitch.
She had a seizure.

Both of which Foreman saw?
He just wanted her out the door!

Whoa, whoa, whoa!
Back up there, big fella.

Foreman's the guy
you wanna take a swing at.

I just want her
to get some medical attention.

That's not even close to being true.

It's something else.
Something personal.

Give me the file.

Looks like this'll be fun.

The twitch could be a miniseizure,
unrelated to the diabetes.

Brain tumor?

Glad you could join us,
Eric.

What's the differential
for a twitch in the wrist?

The patient's a 30-ish Jane Doe.
I thought I just discharged her.

Well, she's my patient.
No harm in a second opinion.

A blow to the head?
A subdural hematoma?

Read the file.
No evidence of cranial trauma.

- A twitch could indicate a brain tumor.
- Or about a dozen other things!

Come on. There's two things
homeless people are good at--

getting sick and running scams.

If you're so worried about it
being a brain tumor, get her an M.R.I.

- When she's clear on that,
then you can bounce her out of here.
- Well, you've got her all figured out.

- I've known a lot more
homeless people than you have.
- Yes, you've got that going for you.

How could I have doubted
your medical opinion?

The big question.
You're missing it, all of you.

Oh, geez.

Who is she?

Okay, why are we on this case?
Just because Wilson asked?

- Do I need a better reason?
- Well, most people wouldn't . You do.

The only thing
we know for sure about jane Doe
is that her name isn't jane Doe,

which means no medical history.

Allergies, medication,
previous diagnoses, treatment--

We have no baseline,
no context for medical treatment.

Wow.
Looks just like insulin.

Vomit. Still moist.

- What do you think? Couple of days old?
- Ugh! You trying to make me hurl?

Yeah.
And here's the big finish.

Salty.

Chemical imbalance.

Low magnesium
could cause a twitch.
Or high calcium.

- Or it's a coincidence.
The point is, we don't know anything.
- So do the M.R.I. Find out.

The M.R.I. can wait.
Hang a banana bag.

Give her 24 hours
to correct the electrolyte imbalance.
We'll take it from there.

Great. Thanks.

Okay, even if she's not faking,
what's so fascinating about this case?

At the moment,
how much you don't want me to take it.

That's pretty fascinating.

Nice likeness of Dr. Foreman.

In fact, he's never looked better.

He doesn't like me.
I can tell.

It's okay.
He doesn't like me either.

Who's James?

Ow!
Pain in your head?

Get away from me!

- No, no, no, no!
- All right, let's cool her out.
One milligram Ativan, push.

No!
No, no, no, no, no, no!

Hold on.

Aah! Aah!

She bit me!

- Good news is, she's negative
for HIV and Hep "C".

Yeah?
I'm getting a tetanus shot.
She's getting an M.R.I.

- There's a two-day wait
for nonemergency M.R.I.'s.
- She's getting an M.R.I! Then she's outta here.

But Dr. Terhark specifically said
I'd have the M.R.I. at 10:00.

It's almost 11:00,
and I haven't even had the pre-test yet.

Sorry. We're a little backed up.

Excuse me.
You're Dr. Terhark's 10:00?

I'm Angela Whitney.
I'm meeting my decorator at 11:30.

She's coming all the way
from New York.

Dr. Terhark promised
I'd be home in time.

Ofcourse.

She just about prepped
for her M.R.I.?

Mrs. Whitney?

You tried to steal
someone else's test.

Dr. Terhark
is a plastic surgeon.

The woman was
getting a six-month checkup
on her chin implants.

- I can't believe you authorized this.
- Really?

It sounds exactly
like something I'd do.

She can't have an M.R.I.

The C.T. scan shows
she has a surgical pin in her arm.

The M.R.I. magnet
would have ripped it out of her body.

You like the Alien movies?

You had no medical history.
What were you thinking?

We'll surgically remove the pin,
then do the M.R.I.
Does that sound good?

She has an electrolyte imbalance.

Dr. Foreman, a neurologist,
believes this woman
has a brain tumor.

- Actually, I--
- Hey, don't ever apologize
for a medical opinion.

If he's right
and we don't do this test,
the patient dies.

I realize that you have a specialty
of your own, but does yours have
anything to do with the brain?

His does.

Fine.

- But nothing more
until you find out who she is.
- How are we supposed to--

Hey! He knows
more homeless people
than any of us.

Go check out the hood, dog.

I don't know.

I've seen a lot of faces around here,
but I don't think I know her.

Great.

Say, I, uh, like that jacket.

Yeah, uh,
it's all comin' to me now.

I know where she keeps her stuff.

Just bats.

I thought the lining
would be thicker.

No tumor. Nothing.
Her brain is clear.

Which means that girl had surgery
just so you wouldn't get reamed out by Cuddy.

Not necessarily.
There could still be something
neurological going on.

Sure. She's not conning us.
The M.R.I. is.

Not wearing a coat in this weather.
That is so wrong.
She drew these.

They might give us a clue.

She sign them?
Her name would be a start.

All the mythology, the locations,
they'd all depend on her life experience.

Philadelphia.

Look at that skyline.

It's very evocative.

The Chrysler Building.

- That's a cloud.
- And the Chrysler Building's in New York.

Ehh, I'm getting Philly.

And that cactus,
well, it's a-- it's a smashed car.

- It's a car accident.
- A cactus in Philadelphia?

Water.
Well, water's October, right?
Obviously.

Well, the page number 22,
so that's October 2, 2002.

Ergo, the patient was in a car accident
two years ago last October.

My goodness.
Was she okay?

Broke her arm, I think.

They fixed it with this.

Surgical pin.

Better than a wallet.
Serial numbers in case of recall,
tied to a patient's name.

That's why you insisted on the M.R.I.--
so you could remove
the surgical pin from her arm?

- You didn't think I was gonna do it
to save your sorry ass, did you?

You might wanna
take a look at that.

Her name is Victoria Matsen,
or at least that's the one she used then.

Any hospital
with a record of treating her
should be sending that information.

Oh, crap!

Her blood work came back an hour ago.
Magnesium was normal.

Did you change her banana bag?
Stopped the magnesium,
started iron dextran for severe anemia.

She's allergic to iron dextran.

Grab some epi off the code cart.

Respiratory arrest.
Call a code!

- You're having an allergic reaction.
Can you speak?

She's not getting any air.

Got the epi.

- Sats are down in the 80s and dropping.
- We have about another minute.

Well, we got her sedated
and stabilized.

And you still think
there's nothing wrong with her?
Nothing's changed.

You almost killed her.
That's different.

And we know who she is.

So far, we've heard from three hospitals
with records on Victoria Matsen.

Seven visits going back two years.

- Any home addresses?
- The pin in her arm
went in during an E.R. visit.

She wasn't conscious,
so they didn't get an address.

- The other visits, she gave fake addresses.
- Any treatment for neurological problems?

Anything that
might explain the twitch?

Last winter,
Jefferson Hospital in Philly.
Got treated for frostbite.

Baby, it's cold outside.

And depression.
They put her on Prozac.

Well, I'd be bummed out too.
Zero degrees, living in a box.

Put her back on it.
She cheers up,
she might stop biting people.

There's a billing record
from Hartman Hospital last year.
Two appointments, ultrasounds.

Doesn't say what for.
Pregnant?

Well, only if she was
expecting an elephant.

Appointments
were ten months apart.

Kept the first , blew off the second.

Abdominal pain.

- Her chart doesn't say--
- Wait a minute.

She goes in the first time.

They look, they can't find anything.
Ten months later, why should she
subject herself to that again?

Why make a second appointment?
She didn't.

The nurse made the appointment.

They were looking--
They were looking for ovarian cancer.

You got all of that
from one canceled appointment?

With Jerry Lauseng, yeah.
He's an oncologist.

Hang on. Her current blood work
doesn't show cancer.
C.A. 125 is normal.

And the cancer wouldn't account
for the alleged twitch
or any of her other alleged symptoms.

Actually, it would.

Neoplastic syndrome
associated with the cancer...

could cause her
to twitch like a bunny
on crystal meth.

Ultrasound her ovaries.

- Did you find a brain tumor on her M.R.I.?
- No. Foreman was wrong.

I'm starting to wonder about
that guy's medical chops.
Right.

- Shelley Diamond.
- Yeah.

Dr. House
is ready to see you now.

The little ones are licking each other again,
and Harry's got a seeping wart
on his extra toe.

What room should we go to?

You know what? I think I might be
coming down with something.

Hate to give it to you guys.
Sorry.

Oh, yeah. Just walk out.
Like I'm not gonna do anything.

Bye-bye.

Working hard?

This stuff's pretty good.

Calendraica works
for the Council of Genius.

Bad guy is Mr. Fury.

Fairly generic, no special skills,
but apparently very well organized.

You think you work hard.
Try ruling the universe.

You trying to teach me
something here?

We got the flowing dress, the ring.
Think the patient was married?

Maybe it was a bad break-up.
Maybe he dumped her
'cause she was on drugs.

You care about her personal history?
No.

Question is, why don't you?

I hate to cite a cliché,
but Dad on the streets?

- Dad's with Mom.
- They're both living on the streets?

No. On a pension.

So, who pissed you off?

Right now, you.

Your turn.
You gonna tell me why this case?

She's my new girlfriend.
I'm having a tattoo designed.

I was hoping
you could find out her name.

So she's just another sick person
that kindly Dr. Wilson has made sure
doesn't get lost in the big, ugly system.

Yes, I forgot.
I need a reason to give a crap.

You're giving two craps.
The metric system
always confuses me.

Dr. House?

- Time for Girl Scout cookies already?
- Get me some thin mints.

Since you're too sick
to work in the clinic--

Okay.

I thought you--

I thought
you could do some teaching.
Patient histories.

My specialty.

When you teach,
you learn so much.
Don't you think?

It's all about the giving back.

Good old Cuddy.
Always thinking.

She assign you
a patient to interview?

Mm-hmm.
Mm-hmm.

Then why are you still here?

Why are we on this case?
'Cause Wilson asked House
to do him a favor.

I think House just wants to prove she's sick
so Foreman will be wrong.

- Oh, you boys.
- Hey, I'm just doing my job.

Whoa.

Foreman's gonna be so embarrassed
when he finds out she's got cancer.

Ah. I thought you were
too sick to be down here.

I had to get away from those students,
so I faked a page.

Foreman's parents,
happily married, 40 years.

Mazel tov.
Kein ayin hara.

So why does he hate
homeless people?

I mean, if it's an uncle or a grandparent,
you'd think he'd use it
in his college application essay.

Family struggles
beats a 4.0 G.P.A. any day.

- I think he had a 4.0.
- Maybe he's just a snob.

You really don't need to know
everything about everybody.

I don't need to watch The O.C.,
but it makes me happy.

Yeah, delirious.
What's the other file?

Wilson, James.
Boy Wonder Oncologist.

You know him?

You know, in some cultures,
it's considered almost rude
for one friend to spy on another.

Ofcourse, in Swedish,
the word "friend" can also be
translated as "limping twerp".

Did your pager really just go off,
or are you ditching the conversation?

Why can't both be true?
Come on.

Solid, noncystic mass
on the left ovary.

Five-by-three centimeters.

Central necrosis.

The only question is whether
she dies in two months or three.

God.
You were right.

There's nothing we can do for her here.
Might as well put her back on the street.

Unless it's not cancer.

- Ah, you're joking.
- Well, hard not to.

Nothing funnier than cancer.

What if it's a tuberculoma?
She's living out on the streets,
breathing all kinds of crap 24-7.

The odds are, she's got T.B.
Why can't she have
a nice, benign growth to go with it?

A solid mass on her ovary.
Ovarian cancer's way more likely.

You're right.
It's not even close.

Start her on I.N.H.,
rifampin and streptomycin.

But that's the treatment
for a tuberculoma.

And what is the treatment
for advanced ovarian cancer?

Pine box.

Oncologist to Nuclear Medicine.
Oncologist to Nuclear Medicine.

What are you giving me?
A second dose
of antibiotics.

If you've got a tuberculoma,
it should help.

I don't have a tuberculoma, do I?

Probably not.

Hey, listen.
I'm sorry I didn't believe you.

I'm sorry I lied to you.

I took too much insulin on purpose.

I really wanted a place to sleep.

Were you ever married, Victoria?

But in the comic, it--
Well, it's a comic.
Comics are just made up.

So who's James?

Is he real, or did you make him up?

He's real.

Can I help you find him?

Oh, the-- the light's bright.

It's getting brighter--
Oh-- Ow! Oh !

Hey, take it easy.
Everything's fine.

Mr. Fury wants to hurt me!
Please help me!

Doctor!
Wait, wait, wait.

Hold on, hold on.
Please turn off the light!

Please! Oh, God!

All right, hold on, Victoria.

Hold on. Take it easy.
Everything's fine.

- It's burning!
- Everything's fine, Victoria.

It's burning!
Hold on.

I'm burning!
Take a sip, take a sip.

It's poison!
You gave me poison!

Hold on.

Take it easy.

Hey, turn off that damn light!

Help me, please!

Take it easy. Take it easy.
The bad guys can't get you here.
I've got you covered.

But Mr. Fury's not the bad guy.

I'm the bad guy.
It's me. I'm the bad guy.

It's not a tuberculoma.

Can't be.

I didn't know the biopsy
was back.
Her temperature's 105.

The treatment's not working.
It's cancer.

She's dying.

105.
Good news.

It's a tuberculoma.
How do you figure that?
Her temp's through the roof.

The lab results from the biopsy.
It's definitely a tuberculoma.

So, we're right about the diagnosis,

and the treatment for that diagnosis
is killing her.

Perfect.

The lab checked the biopsy
again, twice.

Well, a tuberculoma doesn't
give you a temperature of 105.

Then it's a tuberculoma
and something else.

The "something else"
is gonna melt her brain.
Poach.

Better metaphor.

A fever that high
has to be bacterial.

- Maybe the bowel got nicked in the biopsy.
- I did the biopsy. No nick.

- She could have picked up
an infection on the streets.
- She didn't have a fever when I admitted her.

The Prozac we gave her could have
triggered serotonin syndrome,
which would explain the fever.

- No. Jefferson put her on Prozac
and it wasn't a problem.
- She probably never took it!

Most likely, they saw her one time
and dumped her out of the E.R.
with a scrip.

- Oh, just like you were gonna do!
- Okay, you two. Grab some scalpels
and settle this like doctors.

Send blood and urine cultures
and get a chest X-ray.

Fine, take her off the Prozac
and put her on Bromocryptene
for the serotonin syndrome.

Might wanna get her in an ice bath as well,
assuming we want her to live long enough
to see those test results.

I said I was sorry.

Your fever's 105.
If we don't bring it down fast--

Foreman,
why are you doing this to me?

I'm saving your life.

No, don't make me go in there, please.
Don't make me do it, please!

I don't wanna go!

Come on.
You can do this.

Please!

Seventeen-year-old female
presents with abrasions and
apparent trauma injury to her wrist.

Dr. House?
Continue.

You're reading a comic book.

And you're calling attention to your bosom
by wearing a low-cut top.

Oh, I'm sorry.
I thought we were having
a "state the obvious" contest.

I'm competitive by nature.

I thought you were
supposed to be listening to
our patient histories.

No, I'm supposed to be teaching you.
If I can do that without listening,
more power to me.

Seventeen-year-old female--

If this guy's supposed to have
universal power over all gravity,
how come his hair won't stay down?

That's just stupid.

- She fell off her horse
while riding in the county fair.
- No, she didn't.

She fell off the steps of her beach house.
You must have gone to the wrong room.

Hard to believe that one patient
could slip past Cuddy and get herself
admitted with a sprained wrist.

Two seems almost impossible.
What room?

Room 2106.

Patients lie,
but usually only one lie at a time.

How much does she weigh?

- It's her wrist, not her weight--
- Poundage, ladies.

- And by-the-by, what color's her nose?
- She's thin.

- Flesh tone?
- What does this have to do
with her wrist?

Almost nothing.

She's either under ninety pounds
or she has a red nose. I gotta go.

What's wrong with her?

That would be telling.

Oh, I am just too nice.

It starts with "C".

- Urine cultures are negative.
- So is the chest X-ray.

- I assume there's a positive coming.
- Lumbar punctures reveal
elevated proteins and white counts.

C.S.F. cultures?
Still brewing.

Nothing on gram stain.
It looks like meningitis.

We know it's definitely an infection,
and we know where it is.

Well, meningitis
is nice and simple.

Get her in isolation
and start her on Ceftriaxone.

Either she gets better,
or she dies.

Let me know which one happens.

Oh, my God!
She was sedated.

It must have worn off.
I did it myself a half hour ago.

I'll check
the nurse's station.

Calendraica.

She's gonna die out there.

You don't walk out of a room
with 10 milligrams of Haldol
in your system.

You don't walk at all.
It was 10 milligrams!
I gave it to her.

It doesn't matter!
Bacterial meningitis--
highly contagious.

If she is out of the hospital,
we are so liable.

Not to worry. She'll be dead
before she can kill anybody.

Security tape confirms it.
She stole some clothes
and she's gone.

Wrong coat.
The cape's in the closet.
I had it cleaned.

- Funny.
- You gonna save her?

In her comics,
Mr. Fury lives in Sloan Harbor.

The night she came in,
she was at a rave at 1408 Sloan Street.

You've been reading.
My, how you've changed.

You are a doctor.
Do what doctors do.

Pick up the phone, dial 911,
and a cop on the other end
does what cops do...

and finds the missing person.

I assume the rest of you
have doctor things to do.
I know you do.

- Cacchi-Ricci Disease.
- Do you even know what that is?

Or are you just guessing
everything that starts with "C"?

The kidney problems
could result in weight loss.
Cacchi. C-A-C--

Oh, geez,
she's going alphabetically.

Doctor, why are you
wearing that bird pin?

It sets off my eyes.

Hi, Jodi. I'm Dr. House.
What brings you to the hospital?

My wrist.
How did that happen?

I was riding the Ferris wheel,
and this huge seagull flew right at me.

How horrifying.

I swung my arm at the bird,
but I hit the Ferris wheel.

She's making it all up?

- No, her wrist really does hurt.
- I'm not lying.

Ofcourse you are.
You have no idea what happened.
You have no memory.

Korsakoff's syndrome.

Her brain is damaged by
excessive drinking or insufficient diet,
pretty obviously the latter.

She has no new memories,
no new ideas.

Can't even process that idea.

So her brain fills the gaps
as best it can using visual clues.

The horse on your shirt
led her to the riding accident,

and the surfscene
on your clipboard
led her to the beach.

"Korsakoff" doesn't start with a "C".

I didn't say "C".

Or did I?

Lesson to be learned--
treat everybody as if they have Korsakoff's.
We all lie anyway.

Give her thiamine right away.
She'll bounce back pretty quickly.

And then get her to eat
some cake and ice cream.

Yes?

Did you need to be so cruel?
I think she's crying.

Hi, Jodi. I'm Dr. House.
What happened to your wrist?

There was this weird old guy.
He had a cane.

See?
It's like it never happened.

Perfect forgiveness.

Pulse is rapid.
You got a temp?

Don't know. She's warm, but--
Might be something to look into.
She has meningitis.

Sorry. I was more worried
about her heart blowing up.
Pulse is 150.

Rhythm regular?
Yeah.

Ready?
One, two, three.

- Where'd you find her?
- Battlefield State Park.

She narrow complex?
Uh-huh.

- She wasn't at Sloan?
- She was just passed out on the grass.

Foreman.
I need Foreman.

All right. Supraventricular tachycardia.
Get me adenosine, one milligram, I.V. push.

Right away.
Thank you.

Hang in there.

Her arrhythmia's stabilized.

Doesn't make sense.
What would push her heart rate
over 150? Dehydration?

- Fever?
- Unlikely. By themselves,
neither one would do it.

We must be wrong
about the meningitis.
Maybe it's structural heart disease.

Her heart rate dropped
when you administered the adenosine.

In two seconds.

It's still meningitis.

If it is, with the delay in treatment,
she's-- she's got almost no chance.

Start the treatment.

Read the report.
I found her lying on the grass.

You should read my reports.
I make up stuff all the time.

What really happened?

Well, since it's you--

I found her lying on the grass.

Wow.

That is a great-looking gun.

It's not a gun.
It's a Taser.

It's so cool-looking.
What does it do?

Fire about 60,000 volts?

At least that's what it would take
to jack someone's heart up to 150.

Okay, okay.

Let's just say
I tell you what happened.
It stays between you and me. Right?

I found her lying on the grass.

Fine.

Don't tell me.

Tell my friend, Ben Franklin.

Dr. Wharton to the research lab.
Dr. Wharton to the research lab.

I watch a lot of cop shows.

The good news is, the heart rate thing
is not connected to her condition.

Well, then she's dying, 'cause
the meningitis treatment isn't helping her.
She's getting worse.

Well, that brings us
to the bad news.

The cop Tasered her.

Jerk. Probably couldn't
get to his real gun fast enough.

First time he hit her in the thigh...

and she just kept going,
like it was nothing.

Right about here.

She didn't feel the Taser.

Localized numbness?
Yeah, in that one spot.

The diabetes?

I don't think so.

Well, no alcohol.
Not entrapment syndrome.

Can't be a vitamin deficiency.

We can't chase down
every sensory neuropathy.

Is that where she bit you?
Yeah.

What the hell!

Can't get angry
if you don't feel anything.

First, there's localized numbness,

then sensitivity to light,

disorientation, paranoia,

ineffectiveness of sedatives,
and then hydrophobia.

Fear of water.

Rabies.

There have only been, what,
10 cases in the last 20 years?

Yeah, that's because nonhomeless people,
when they get bitten, they get shots.

There were bats.

She's dying.

There's no treatment.

How much time does she have?

A day. Maybe two.

And if you don't get your shot
in the next, say, three hours,

I'm gonna have to make
another affirmative action hire.

Come on.

Do it.

You want me to talk to her?

And say what?

"There's some experimental treatment
that's not gonna work"? No.

"But don't worry,
we can make you comfortable"?

Doesn't matter.

Now she's gonna die in that room.

Yeah.

That's what you say to her.

Keep that there
and rest for a minute.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Tell House I need to go out
for about an hour.

She may not have that long.

I don't want her to die alone.

You're going to find James.

I'm gonna try.

Well, I must say,
he's done a lot with the place.

Hello?

Hey.

This is it.

Man. No one's been in here
for a long time.

It's gotta be James.

Maybe there's another address.

That's not James.

Paul.

Paul Furia.

Mr. Fury.

Her husband.

Then who's James?

Her kid.

Aw, I just wanna eat you up.
You're so delicious!

Aw, look at me.

You're just like your papa.
Look at you! Just like your dad.

Foreman.

Foreman?

They're dead.

That car crash two years ago--

She broke her arm,
and they were killed.

She was driving.

James.

No.

It's Paul.
Paul?

You've come to take me.

No.

I've come to forgive you.

It wasn't your fault.

I'm so sorry.

I'm so sorry.
I'm so sorry.

I know.

It's okay, Victoria.

It's okay.

Oh.

You followed me?

No.

You were wearing rain boots today,
but you were parked
in the underground garage,

so the only reason you'd need boots
was if you were hitting the streets.

I followed you.

Didn't we have a conversation
about friendship?
Yeah.

I had some follow-up questions.

I've met your parents
and your brother.

I have two brothers.

Why wouldn't you tell me--
It wasn't relevant.

Why not?
Because he's not
in my life anymore.

Well, that's relevant.

This was the last place I saw him.

Nine years ago.

I don't even know if he's alive.

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