Kurt was 23 and standing at a crosswalk in downtown Brooklyn, New York, waiting for the walking man light, right before he got the news.

His phone rang three times while he tried to fish it out of his possiblytootight pants pockets. He exhaled into the receiver and Burt's voice replied, "Hello?"

"Dad?"

"Hey, Kurt. Um--"

"Dad, I'm sorry, can I talk to you in a sec? The light just turned green."

"Um. Yeah, Kurt, yeah, son, but I think--"

"One sec, Dad."

Burt mumbled something hasty in reply and Kurt half-heard it as he lowered the phone. He walked briskly into the street. Halfway across he had to stop for a cab that was completely disregarding traffic rules. "Hey! Watch it!" he shouted as it sped past the spot he had almost stood at. He breathed a sigh of relief when his toe edged up on the curb. He put the phone back to his ear.

"Dad? Still there?"

"Yes."

"Are you okay? You sound--"

"Blaine's hurt, Kurt."

"What?"

A stranger on the sidewalk suddenly erupted into song. He brushed up against Kurt and clung to his arm for a second before stumbling away, slurring a rendition of "My Girl." Passersby didn't blink or change pace.

"Dad, what did you say?"

"I said Blaine's hurt. And it's bad."

Kurt could hear his own breathing speed up before he felt it. "How? How bad?"

Quiet.

Kurt could almost see his dad putting a hand to his head, lifting his ballcap to rub at the hair that wasn't there, and letting the cap slide back into place.

"I think you needa come home, son."