House's first stop on his second mission is the cafeteria, where he lectures Wilson not to talk to Boyd about their weekly poker games. Wilson claims to have no idea what House is talking about. House says that either Wilson told Boyd about the poker thing, or House will have to start going to church on Sunday, which would conflict with his bowling league matches. Surprisingly, Wilson does not immediately try to score an invitation to join House's bowling league. He just says he's never spoken to Boyd about poker or anything else.
The MRI results are back, and they confirm tuberous sclerosis. Foreman says that they can remove Boyd's cortical tumor through surgery and cure him of everything -- including, House says, his frequent chats with God. That might be a problem.
Wilson and Grace stroll through the hospital, Grace definitely looking much healthier than she did the last time we saw her. Wilson tries to convince her that miracles are very rare, but Grace is a glass-is-a-millimeter-full kind of lady and only takes that to mean that miracles can happen. She tells Wilson that every day that passes only means that she has that little time left in her life. These days, when she sees a trailer for a movie, she has to wonder if she'll even be alive when it comes out. And...yeah, that's pretty heavy. So the possibility, however slim, of being able to actually make plans for a year from now is pretty appealing to her. Plus, she'll be able to see Spider-Man 3! Wilson tells her not to do this to herself, because she'll just "crash so hard." He challenges her to let him take new images of her liver, so that he can prove to her that she isn't getting better. I'm sure her insurance company will be happy to pay for something so necessary as some guy trying to make a point.
Over in Boyd's room, Foreman and Chase explain tuberous sclerosis to Boyd and his father. Dad balks at the prospect of brain surgery, but Foreman assures him that it's a simple operation that will solve all of Boyd's problems, including those auditory hallucinations. After the surgery, they tell him, "[his] son should be a perfectly normal fifteen-year-old boy." Now it's Boyd's turn to balk: "I'm not normal." Hey, if I had the option of believing that either God thought I was awesome enough to talk to exclusively or that I had some crappy brain tumor, I guess I'd choose the latter, too. Just like Grace would rather believe that her terminal cancer has decided to go away on its own rather than that her endorphins are just creating a temporary feeling of health and happiness.