Finn and Kurt hung out in Finn's room, talking about anything other than Kurt's problems, until Carole called them downstairs for dinner.

"Smells great," Kurt said as he and Finn sat down at the dining table. "Normally, I'd say 'no, thanks' to the tuna pasta, but I'm starving and I'm a little beyond caring about my carb intake at the moment."

Burt and Carole exchanged a glance that Kurt didn't see, as he was busy dropping a large serving onto his plate. Finn saw the look, though, and somehow knew what was coming. He tensed involuntarily.

"Kurt, we need to talk," Burt said, clearing his throat.

"About what?"

"I have to go back to work."

Kurt paused, mid-chew. "…Okay?" he said.

"Carole and I can't stay home from work any more," Burt continued tightly. It was obvious that he didn't like what he was about to say, and Finn kept an eye on Kurt, carefully gauging his response. "It's not financially possible, especially considering the hospital bill after your mishap. We need to start thinking about what you're going to do."

Kurt swallowed, and Finn saw realization flit over his face. Whether or not he knew what Burt was talking about was unclear, but he had an idea; Finn could see that much.

Burt picked up a small scrap of paper from the table by his wrist, where Kurt couldn't have seen it before. His father slid the paper over to him. "These are the names of six hospitals," Burt said, and Finn watched as Kurt's face gradually contorted, as if it was trying to cave in on itself. "I want you to look at them, try to get a feel for them, and then we'll set up an evaluation at whichever one you choose. You should be a part of the process."

"Dad—" Kurt choked out, barely audible.

"Kurt, you know I'm just trying to do right by you," Burt said, his voice wavering. "But if we're going to make this work, then Carole and I need to both be at work full-time, and we can't leave you alone." He reached out and wrapped his fingers firmly around Kurt's forearm, over the bandages.

"Dad, you can't do this to me," Kurt whispered. His eyes were wide and covered in a glassy film.

"We want to help you, Kurt," Carole cut in. She was already crying. "And we can't. Not like this."

"S-so you're just sending me away?" Kurt's voice was thin and stretched. "You're locking me up?"

Burt shook his head vehemently. "No, Kurt, we— We made sure that all of these hospitals are in Ohio, no more than three hours away. We'll visit every weekend and any other days we have free, no matter what. And with the doctors, we'll make you better."

Kurt turned to Finn, his face broken. "Did you know about this?"

Finn couldn't force himself to look Kurt in the eye, so he stared at his plate and nodded his head. Kurt's chair scraped against the floor as he lurched to his feet.

"Kurt—" Carole started to go after him as he disappeared towards the stairs, but Burt stopped her.

"Let him be for a little while," he said shakily. "He might calm down faster if we leave him alone."

"But what if—"

"There's nothing sharp up there," Burt assured her. "I got rid of it all."

A door slammed upstairs, leaving the entire house silent for a long time. Carole let out a long breath before sitting down again. No one was hungry any more.

A minute later, there was a muffled but solid-sounding thump from upstairs, followed by another thump a few seconds later, then a third, and fourth.

"What's he doing?" Finn asked.

"I'm not sure," Burt replied, staring in the direction of the staircase.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Well, what could he be doing?" Carole said, her forehead knitted with worry.

"Might be knocking the furniture around," Burt thought. "He's done that before."

"It doesn't sound like that," Finn cut in.

Thump. Finn felt the bottom of his stomach grow tighter. Thump. Thump.

Burt stood up. "I'll go see if he's okay," he said, but Carole stopped him.

"I don't think he can talk to you right now, Burt," she told him gently. "I'll go."

Burt swallowed, sitting back down as Carole left the two men at the table. She quickly climbed up the stairs to Kurt's room, and the thumps grew louder. "Kurt, honey?" she called, knocking lightly on the door.

Thump.

"Kurt?"

Thump.

Carole sighed, biting her lip. Thump. "I'm coming in, Kurt," she said, turning the knob.

The door was locked.

Thump.

"Kurt, please open the door."

Thump.

"Kurt."

Thump.

"Kurt!" Carole yanked on the handle, rattling the door in its frame. "Open this door!"

"Carole?" came Burt's voice from the foot of the stairs. "What's going on?"

Thump.

"Kurt's locked himself in!" She rattled the door again, hoping that the noise would shake Kurt out of whatever state he was in.Thump. "Kurt!"

Burt ran up the stairs a minute later, pushing Carole to the side. He had a very small screwdriver in his hand. Thump. Sliding the nose of the screwdriver into the tiny hole in the doorknob, he jiggled it for a second, then twisted it until it clicked.

The door swung open, and at first, neither Burt nor Carole saw Kurt. Then, another thump, sounding solid and painful now that they were in the room, made Carole edge around the end of Kurt's bed.

Kurt was sitting on the floor, curled up with his back propped against his desk, ramming the back of his head into it over and over and over again.

Carole immediately dropped to her knees and pulled Kurt away from the desk, wrapping her arms around him in an attempt to calm him and to keep him from hurting himself any further. She could see the small bloodied patch on the back of his head where it had been hit enough to break the skin.

"Sh, shh," she said, holding him tightly so that he wouldn't move away. He didn't fight her, but he didn't seem to be able to hear her, either.

Hours later, Burt was sitting on the couch, having a beer and absentmindedly watching the basketball game on TV. Carole had stayed in Kurt's room with him until Schism had finally taken control, and then left him on his own with the door propped open. No one had eaten dinner.

It was nearing midnight when Kurt walked past and vanished into the kitchen without so much as a word to Burt. Burt was about to stand up and see what he was doing, but Kurt returned a second later with his own beer, sitting heavily on the couch next to him.

"Who's winning?" he asked gruffly before popping the cap off with his teeth.

"Lakers," Burt answered. He reached for the bottle. "You're not supposed to be drinking that."

Kurt held the beer out of Burt's reach. "Fuck off, asshole."

Burt threw up his hands. "Fine. Do what you want." He turned his eyes back to the TV. "Is Kurt all right?"

"Why do you give a shit?"

"I'm his father."

Kurt laughed harshly. "No, you're not."

"Craig, we've gone over this and over this before. You are not Kurt's father. You can't be, because you're not real."

Kurt gave a sinister grin that always made Burt's stomach twist and set his teeth on edge. "I'm real, all right," he said. "And I do way more for the little fag than you've done in your sorry-ass life."

Burt's jaw clenched, and he turned to face Kurt full-on. "Do not tell me that I'm a bad father," he snarled. "I don't hit my son, or call him names, or torture him in any way. That's your department, and it does not make you his father."

"You don't protect him," Kurt snapped back. "You've never protected him, and so it's really your fault that he's completely fucked in the head."

"What are you talking about? I've always protected him."

"And that's where you're fucking wrong."

Kurt stood and stomped back upstairs, taking his beer with him.