Back at Princeton-Plainsboro, the crack team are going through the hotel's security files. As much as no one likes to see a sick kid, based on my expertise garnered from watching at least four episodes of Las Vegas, hotels don't give up their security tapes very easily, and wouldn't they at least be in the room? But no, it is just all three team members in their civvies, with nary a white coat in sight to give them a soupçon of authority to explain why the hotel would give them the tapes. And what happens if the girl codes while they're all standing around reviewing the tape, huh? They're trying to figure out if the girl really went for ice or went and licked arsenic-lined wallpaper or something. They see her in the elevator and she has the author's journal in her hands. Ooh, it's his fault! Sic 'im!

Wilson is so depressed he's taking a long walk off a short pier. Luckily, House finds him before he can go any further. Wilson swears he's not insane for publicly talking about playing Dr. Kevorkian with his patients. Doctors are rarely indicted! Which is certainly a ringing endorsement. But seriously, Wilson, if House thinks something is a bad idea, you may want to listen. Wilson feels that he is firmly on the moral high ground here and truly believes that someone besides teabaggers and Sarah Palin needs to talk about how the dying are treated in this country. House agrees, but doesn't think Wilson should jeopardize his practice by taking a stand. Think about the cancer patients, Wilson! The cancer patients! Wilson swears he just wants to do what he believes in, consequences be damned. House demands, "Who taught you how to do this stuff?!" Wilson retorts, "I learned it by watching you!"