As we left M&M, Wilson took a look out the window and informed me he wanted a ride to his car that afternoon, and that he would be by at 4:45 sharp. Foreman gave him a quizzical look; I thought about pointing out how Wilson needed to protect his spiffy new shoes, but then I looked at Cameron's shoes and thought better of it.

He was on time, but it was already getting dark. We headed out to my car. The walks had been cleaned and salted, but they were already filling back up with snow.

I started the car and unlocked the passenger door. He didn't get in right away, but stood outside while I brushed the snow off the windows. Finally I was finished and got in. I settled behind the wheel, pulled the blue hangtag off the mirror, and tucked it behind the visor. He didn't say anything; he's used to the routine.

"So, where are you parked?"

"Over there." He nodded to the right. "Two more rows."

"I thought you got here early."

"Doesn't count for anything when everyone else is early too." He glanced out the window. "You up for dinner tonight?"

"Sure, what did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking about inviting myself over to your place. I could pick something up on the way over. How does Italian sound?"

Italian, of course, it's Wednesday, isn't it? "Sure. Why don't you go ahead and call in your calzone?" He'd already dug his phone out of the briefcase. I let him off at his car and waited while he warmed up and brushed off. I pulled forward, he backed out, and we drove off into the snowy dusk.

The restaurant is not too far away from my place. I got there first, and Wilson pulled in beside me. He waved me back in my car. I unwrapped a lollipop (grape) as he went in to pick up our order.

It wasn't about protecting his shoes at all, of course, and it wasn't just about dinner. He was making sure I made it home without falling on my face -- and that I had something for dinner, as well. (He knows the uncertain state of my pantry.) As I looked toward the restaurant doors, I could feel my leg aching terribly, but I was distracted by the lollipop and by an overwhelming flood of anticipation -- and gratitude, for lack of a better word. In another fifteen minutes or so, I would be back at my place, warm and dry, ripping into the carryout boxes and smelling the garlic and the oily nip of the salad dressing, happy and not alone. It isn't just about dinner -- but a big part of it is just about dinner.

The fact that I was driving at all was Wilson's doing. He was the one who prodded me out of bed and then out of my apartment. He was the one who gave me hell when I balked at getting the hand controls. I hate them, I hate looking at them, but I hate the alternative even more. And M&M today -- he was the one who goaded me back into going. Dr Nussbaum, the old Director -- he pleaded; Andersson (Cuddy's predecessor) threatened; Wilson was the one who got me to go. He waved interesting cases under my nose. He whispered gossip as we walked in to keep my mind off the stares and whispers. He fed me lollipops, trying to distract me from the neuralgia -- and keep my mouth shut.

I can never repay him, and I hope I never have to. He's had his rough spots, and I think I see another one coming soon; I'll do what I can for him -- he's no stranger to my sofa -- but it looks like he's already got a cure lined up for the coming crisis. No, I hope I don't have to in the sense that I hope I never see him huddled in a chair, his face to the wall of a darkened room, with his life -- personal, professional, everything -- in ruins.

He came back out with the bags and grinned. I just lifted my eyebrows. He got back in the car and we headed back to my place. The condo guys do a pretty decent job of keeping the walks and parking lot clear, but it was dark and starting to freeze. I pulled into my spot and put the tag back on the mirror; he parked and caught up with me. We headed up to my place. I switched on the light and headed straight for the piano -- I'd left some Vicodin there and it was easier than trying to get at the one in my pocket under my overcoat. He set the bags on the table and took off his own coat. And before long we were sitting in front of a Simpsons rerun, eating calzone and ziti and garlic bread and wedding soup and Greek salad, talking shop and making fun of the flying PowerPoint bullets. He stayed until a little before seven before he took off. I watched his car pull out of the lot and then looked out the window at the snow for a while before settling in with a Scotch and a pile of journals and books.