Chapter 43: Even Nuns Have Problems
Seeing that Finch had joined his cause, David smiled slightly and continued:
"Hey, there'll be opportunities, but not now.
With only Reese currently, we're nowhere near their match.
We still need more allies.
So I need you to help me monitor someone—a transporter."
Finch was mildly curious:
"Who?"
David handed over the note with the address he'd prepared earlier.
"Frank Martin, a specialized courier who usually transports packages for criminal organizations.
He seems like a bad guy, because the cargo he moves leads to countless ruined lives.
But in the near future, he'll undergo a transformation.
And I need you to wait for this transformation and recruit him."
Finch raised an eyebrow:
"Did you also see this through the Machine?"
David chuckled, looking pointedly at Finch:
"Of course. Perhaps the Machine didn't even realize what it witnessed—after all, it just learned how to learn."
Hearing this, Finch's expression instantly froze.
This David genuinely knew everything.
He even knew Finch had embedded self-learning code in the Machine.
Under this code's influence, the Machine could achieve rapid growth through collected data—what people commonly called 'AI'.
But honestly, only he and the Machine knew about this.
David's casual statement proved once again he was a genuine 'prophet'.
As if nothing in this world could be concealed from David. The only tragedy was David wouldn't survive much longer.
Seeing the pity in Finch's eyes, David shook his head:
"Don't worry about me. I definitely won't die before witnessing the High Table's fall."
"Alright, I need to get to work. You and Reese can handle your business.
Oh, and you can find me after my shift.
Before we have sufficient strength, I'm willing to help you save some innocent lives first."
After speaking, David pulled open the supply closet door and headed toward Diagnostics.
Finch watched David's retreating figure, unconsciously pondering his motivations.
Had the High Table killed David's parents? Was that why David harbored such intense hatred?
Even clinging to his final breath, wanting to witness the High Table's destruction?
But according to intelligence he'd obtained, David only recently had interactions with the Continental.
How profound was this hatred?
Unable to decipher it, Finch glanced at the address recorded on the paper and slowly departed the hospital.
The High Table was genuinely a behemoth.
As David walked toward Diagnostics, he suddenly spotted three nuns entering the hospital and heading toward Clinic Room One.
This was genuinely rare for Princeton-Plainsboro.
Usually, such nuns would prioritize Catholic hospitals, only choosing alternatives if encountering conditions their facilities couldn't handle.
Clearly, they'd encountered such a situation.
David rapidly searched his memory.
He quickly understood what was about to unfold.
So he changed direction, no longer heading to the Diagnostics office, but instead toward Clinic Room One.
House, having just finished with a patient and currently slacking off reading a medical journal, saw David enter and casually dismissed him:
"Yo, you're back? Looks like NYPD didn't give you too much grief yesterday."
"If you're here asking if there's work—
then I can tell you, there are no complex cases requiring consultation today. Consider today a holiday.
If that doesn't work, go buy each of us coffee and come back."
David smiled and gestured toward the three nuns seated outside:
"No, I saw them arrive and got curious. Wanted to see what condition requires treatment here.
As far as I know, their respective parishes have dedicated hospitals, and under normal circumstances, they wouldn't come here."
As soon as House heard "nuns," his eyes lit up with immediate interest.
Of course, he wasn't excited because of their religious vocation—he was excited about potential medical puzzles nuns might present.
House was simply that kind of man who loved challenges.
"Is that so? Send them in. I'm equally curious what condition requires treatment here."
Soon, three nuns wearing habits entered Clinic Room One.
Observing the somewhat reserved nuns, David was first to break the silence:
"Hello, I'm Dr. Wells, a new intern, primarily responsible for documentation.
This is my attending, Dr. House. He's also the finest diagnostician at this hospital.
So you can describe any symptoms, and he'll provide the optimal treatment plan."
The nuns exchanged glances, then an older nun addressed the middle sister:
"Sister Augustine, show him your hands."
The young nun called Sister Augustine rolled up both sleeves, revealing arms that appeared severely burned.
House examined Sister Augustine's hands without hesitation, and after asking routine questions, diagnosed somewhat disappointedly:
"Contact dermatitis. You're allergic to cleaning solution."
Hearing House's confident diagnosis, the older nun immediately objected:
"Nonsense. We all use identical products and have for years. Why aren't we allergic?"
House had always dismissed such skepticism.
He simply chuckled and addressed David:
"See? Patients always distrust physician assessment.
They always want to hear what they prefer to hear.
They always want doctors to repeatedly emphasize before accepting correct diagnosis.
But they don't realize people can develop allergies to items they've contacted continuously for years.
Like this case."
As House spoke, he turned and retrieved medication from a nearby cabinet:
"Good news—the prescribed medication has sample sizes, complimentary.
Diphenhydramine, an antihistamine, typically used to block allergic reactions affecting skin and mucous membranes.
One tablet every eight hours. Side effect may cause drowsiness. You can also get over-the-counter hydrocortisone cream for topical application."
Sister Augustine accepted the Diphenhydramine and smiled:
"Thank you, Doctor."
"Medication works rapidly—takes effect within minutes. Need water?"
Sister Augustine smiled and declined:
"I brought my own tea."
House was indifferent to this. Just as he was about to exit clinic, David suddenly pulled him back.
"I think we should remain and observe her reaction after taking medication."
House considered this—he genuinely should set proper example for this intern.
One lazy physician like himself was sufficient. If there were two, the hospital's clinic would be completely useless eventually.
So House returned to his seat, awaiting the medication's effects.
But soon, Sister Augustine, having taken the medication, felt chest tightness and couldn't breathe.
This situation was clearly wrong!
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