You don't notice (not really) when you lose a single sock from the laundry bag, or a penny falls from your pocket and rolls away, or a receipt gets brushed off the table and drifts under the refrigerator.
When entire rooms of your house go missing, though, you kind of can't help but sit up and take notice.
Especially when other rooms appear in their stead. Like that blue bathroom with the flamingo-pink tile by the upstairs hall closet. Or the windowless room with the piano (none of us plays the piano) or the cupola on top of the house. I mean, you can't even get to the cupola, so really, House, what's the point?
House doesn't answer.
House has always had some tricksy tendencies like this. I noticed it when I was young, three or four maybe, but "notice" isn't really the right word. At that age, your logical understanding of the world around you isn't so good, and it somehow seems perfectly natural that your house would be a nexus of constantly shifting treasure. Besides, most kids...