Cure- House, MD

chapter 1: principles of churg-strauss (pilot)

I step into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, shivering as the icy air bites at my skin. Tightening my grip on my white coat, I try to keep warm, though it's a losing battle.

This place already feels different. For one, no scrubs required. A weird change, but honestly, I'm okay with it. Scrubs get old fast.

I was called here by a "Dr. Gregory House" to consult on a neurological case. The details were vague, which was strange, but the guy seemed determined.

I'm a neurologist based in Orlando, Florida, specializing in sleep disorders at AdventHealth. Flying all the way to New Jersey without knowing the specifics felt like overkill, but here I am. It's not like I'm new to working with difficult personalities—this field is full of them. As a twenty-eight-year-old woman, I've had my share of condescending comments about my age and gender. It's exhausting, but it keeps me sharp. There's nothing more satisfying than proving people wrong.

I wander the halls, looking for the diagnostic unit, and eventually spot a door marked:
Dr. Gregory House, M.D. Diagnostician.

Found it.

I knock on the glass and see a man sitting at the desk. He glances up briefly, then waves me in without a word.

"Can I... help you?" he asks, barely looking at me as he scrolls on his computer.

"I'm Dr. Evelyn Moss," I say, smiling politely. "You asked me to come."

He doesn't smile back. Instead, he stares at me for a moment before shrugging. "No, I didn't."

Seriously? My smile fades. "Yes, you did. Neurologist. From Florida. Ring any bells?"

Nothing. He shakes his head and looks back at his screen.

I sigh, crossing my arms. "You specifically called me up here for a neurological consult."

"Oh!" he says suddenly, throwing his hands in the air like it just clicked. "The fetus. The one everyone claims is the best neurologist in the country. Why didn't you just say that?"

Fetus? I blink, caught off guard as he gestures for me to sit.

"Right," I say dryly, sitting across from him. "So... the case?"

House glances down at a paper on his desk, holding it up briefly. "Fifteen-year-old boy. Heart attack."

I frown. "Heart attack? What does that have to do with neurology?"

"It doesn't," he says, completely deadpan. "I just wanted a second opinion."

"You brought me all the way from Florida for a second opinion?"

"Yup." He slides the chart across the desk toward me.

Unbelievable.

I pick up the chart and skim through it as he talks.

"He had elevated levels of troponin¹, which is a marker for heart damage during an MI². But here's the fun part: increased blood flow to the left hemisphere of his brain. Kid tackled someone at football practice, hit the ground, and didn't get back up."

I glance up. "Elevated blood flow in the brain suggests a seizure. A seizure isn't a heart attack."

House groans dramatically. "And this is why I called you. Genius insight like that."

I ignore the sarcasm. "Were his blood sugar and electrolytes normal? Any signs of creatine kinase³ from muscle damage?"

"High white blood cell count, specifically eosinophils," he replies.