House halted his steps. He tucked his cane under his arm, and reached into his pocket and withdrew a small brown prescription bottle. Shaking a pill into his hand, he tossed it back in his throat and dry swallowed with an ease that only came with practice and repetition.
Slipping the bottle back in his pocket, he once again turned his focus to Carl. A traveling carnival in 1935 was not what he had in mind for his next gig when he walked out of PPTH earlier in the day. Everything Carl suggested was simply absurd, not to mention impossible.
"Right, so. You're here to take me back to Mayfield?" He'd done his time at Mayfield. he'd even solved a medical mystery, and epically failed another. He'd done his time, and while he knew he was just as broken now as he'd been the day he checked himself into the mental facility, he wasn't interested in going back. "Thanks but no thanks. I've got other plans."