When Kurt came to his senses, his face was mashed into the pile of pillows on his bed, and the room was filled with sunlight. He lifted his head and tried to open his eyes, but it was too bright so he groaned softly and pulled a pillow over his head. He didn't know what time it was or how long he'd been gone or even what day of the week it was, but he was in his own bed so he hadn't been sent off to the hospital yet. He was more than familiar with the feeling of disorientation after coming back from a transition – so familiar that he wasn't sure the feeling could even be classified as disorienting any more. He just wanted to sleep and forget about the fiasco he was sure he'd caused at the Berry house.

But, as he rolled over into a more comfortable position, two very sharp pains on his back jolted him fully awake. He sat up in bed with a frown, reaching around his torso with his right arm to try to feel what was causing the pain. He hissed slightly as the movement stretched the skin on his back and made it hurt even more.

Throwing the covers back, Kurt stood and went over to the full-length mirror in the corner. He was only wearing a pair of pajama pants, leaving his upper body bare. He turned to try to get a view of the left side of his back. His eyes widened.

On his shoulder blade was a small round reddened patch of scarring skin that might have been mistaken for some kind of rash at first glance, and there was an identical one further down, near his lowest rib. Kurt had watched the Discovery Channel crime-solving shows enough to know exactly what they were.

Cigarette burns.

He gritted his teeth, staring at the burns and realizing that he would have the scars for the rest of his life. Somehow, he'd managed to treat any injuries the alters gave him well enough to keep them from scarring noticeably. His arms were covered in markings from Eleanor's fits, but you could only see the scars if you knew what you were looking for.

But these… there would be no hiding these.

Kurt sighed and went to take a shower, making sure to use cold water.

Hiram checked his watch as he walked into the Lima Police Department on Sunday morning, wearing a suit that clearly stated he was all business. He didn't usually work on Sundays, and technically he was doing this in his free time, but he wanted the police chief to take him seriously.

The previous night, while Leroy snored loudly, Hiram had stayed up until nearly four in his study, researching DID and its causes, symptoms, and effects on the internet and in the psychology textbooks from his own personal library (a criminal lawyer never knew when Freudian theory would come in handy). Contrary to what Leroy would say, Hiram had heard him say to stay out of the conflict. He'd just blatantly ignored the advice.

"Hey, Jimmy," he greeted the officer at the front desk, who was talking to some kid about a stolen bike. The building wasn't crowded – there wasn't usually a lot of illegal stuff happening on Sundays beyond random teenagers having fun with spray paint and possibly rolling joints. "Is the Chief in?"

Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, he's in back. You can go in."

Hiram thanked him and pushed through the swinging door at the end of the counter, heading through the desks to the police chief's private office and knocking sharply on the door.

"Hiram! Haven't seen you around in awhile," the chief said, standing up to shake Hiram's hand.

"Well, not a lot of murders and heavy drugs happening on Lima Main Street," Hiram replied.

"Yeah, you've got to go to Cincinnati for that."

Hiram laughed. He'd been working off and on with Police Chief Rick Chevalier for twenty years, ever since he and Leroy had started living in Lima. It was rare that his work took place so locally, however, so it wasn't often that Hiram had had to call on Chevalier's help.

"So, what can I help you with?" Chevalier asked, sitting back down and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I need to call in a favor," Hiram said, sinking into one of the chairs in front of Chevalier's desk. "I need an all-access pass to the Ohio sex offender registry."

Chevalier raised his eyebrows. "That's it? You don't need me for that – you can find that online."

"Only within a two mile radius of a specific address," Hiram countered. "I need everything."

"The entire registry?" Chevalier gaped. "Do you have any idea how many names that is?"

"Rick, I've been a lawyer for longer than you've been out of the police academy – of course I know how many names it is," Hiram said patiently. "But I have a first name, so that should narrow it down some."

"Oh, sure, I'll just round up every single Joe on the list and bring all one thousand of them down here for questioning," Chevaliers shrugged. "What are you looking for, exactly?"

Hiram shook his head. "That part's private. But there can only be so many Franklins on that list."

"Franklin? Why would you have a first name and not a last?"

"You know I can't disclose information on an underage client without parental permission," Hiram replied smoothly. Technically Kurt was not underage or his client, but Chevalier didn't need to know that.

"All right, fine," Chevalier surrendered. "You have any idea what this guy did?"

"The details haven't been disclosed to anyone other than my client's therapist, but I would have to guess either maximum damage or repetitive molestation. He'd be going for the younger kids – probably under ten."

Chevalier nodded. "Okay. It'll take a few days at least, but I'll have Jimmy run a check through the system, compile a list of likely suspects."

"Thanks." Hiram stood up, re-buttoning his suit jacket.

"You want me to send it in to your office?"

"Uh, no, if you could just call me and I'll pick it up myself."

"Keeping the client under wraps, huh?" Chevalier guessed.

Hiram nodded as he pulled the door open. "Protection is what we do, isn't it?" he said, stepping outside. "I'll expect that list by the end of Thursday."

Kurt's hair was still wet from the shower as he yanked on a fresh pair of pajama pants and grabbed Robbie's least favorite shirt out of the drawer, carefully pulling it over his head and trying not to wince as the burns were tugged. He glanced at his alarm clock to make sure of the date – February 12th – and went downstairs to put together some breakfast.

Carole was standing at the kitchen island, mixing cookie dough. She smiled as he walked in. "Hey, you. How'd you sleep?"

Kurt yawned and pulled himself up onto one of the stools across from her, resting his chin in his hand. "Pretty well considering I don't know how long I slept for," he said.

"About five hours," Carole answered. Kurt knew that she was so adjusted to filling in the blanks for him that she didn't even have to remind herself to catalogue the schedule of events when he wasn't himself. She would remember everything and then tell him once he returned, and it saved Kurt from a massive amount of stress (not that that made all the other stress easier to deal with, but still).

Kurt frowned and looked at the clock. "It's… two in the afternoon," he said. "Who was awake for that long?"

"Well," Carole said hesitantly, sucking a drop of cookie dough off her finger. "Eleanor was out for almost all that time, and then it was Zack. He was awake for about ten minutes before he crashed."

Kurt groaned. "It was Eleanor at the dinner?"

Carole nodded apologetically.

Kurt sighed, crossing his arms on the counter and letting his head rest on his forearms. He'd ruined it for Rachel and Finn. Rachel's dads had caught a glimpse of exactly what Rachel was involving herself with, and they were going to order her to break up with Finn, and Kurt had ruined it.

"Honey, don't worry so much about it," Carole said, and Kurt forced himself to raise his head. "Eleanor didn't break anything, she didn't insult anyone or hurt anyone. She didn't even try."

"Seriously? That doesn't sound like her." Kurt was now more confused than anything else. "How did you know it was her?"

"Her voice is very distinctive."

"I can't imagine she'd have much to talk about without insulting anyone," Kurt said dryly.

"She didn't."

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together. He could hear in Carole's tone that there was something more she knew she had to say. "Carole, what happened?" he prodded.

Carole sighed, moving the mixing bowl aside and pulling herself onto the stool next to Kurt. "Eleanor said something that we're worried about," she said slowly.

"Okay… what'd she say?"

"'Franklin's been a bad man.'"

Kurt blinked, then swallowed audibly. "What else?" he forced himself to ask, his voice shaking slightly.

"Nothing, but…" Carole hesitated again, lacing her fingers together on the counter. "Eleanor repeated that phrase, non-stop, for more than twelve hours."

Kurt stared at her. There were tears in her eyes.

"Kurt, this… this can't keep going," she said, her lip trembling. "Your dad and I can't let you live like this. It's killing you."

Kurt let out a breath. His lungs seemed to be having a hard time operating on their own. He knew Carole was right. He knew it was killing him, and it was killing him excruciatingly slowly.

That night as Kurt slept, he dreamed he was trapped in a garden maze, and that the vines reached out and grabbed him and pulled him limb from limb.