It was a good thing the patient wasn't actually susceptible to laryngospasms, because right now Foreman was having a hard time concentrating on the test. It didn't matter--the patient's tidal volume was holding, and Foreman increased the dose to sixteen milligrams per millilitre, since House would always ask if they'd pushed the test as far as it could go. And that was the problem. Amber was exactly the sort of person who'd push too far, vault over lines, if she thought she could win or be better. Every word she said only emphasized that. Foreman didn't think he'd ever forget the way Matty had screamed when Foreman had been tearing as much marrow out of the kid's bones as he needed to save his brother. He'd gone too far. He didn't expect Amber to understand that. Maybe she'd never been in a position like that, seeing something like that. He wanted to believe that she hadn't--if she had, and she still felt this way, then the argument was more than pointless. "You don't need to imitate him. You already think being right matters more," he said. "I learned it doesn't, probably too late." It wasn't about whether he could hold on to a job. It was about his own personal lines, what was more important to him.

He slumped back in his seat, feeling defeated. Amber's mention of imitating House reminded him of the patient's newest symptoms. Even with the increased methacholine dosage, their John Doe hadn't shown any changes. Maybe it was some form of Munchausen's syndrome; that might explain some of his faked personality, if not the imitation. "This is pointless," he said. After everything he'd heard from Amber, he wanted to move on. Get back to the differential. Away from the argument, away from having his failures thrown in his face as if they were weaknesses instead of bad luck, bad circumstances. He'd expected as much from House, but he'd never wanted to hear it from Amber.