Burt drummed his thumbs anxiously against the steering wheel as he drove along the highway outside of Bellefontaine the next morning. Kurt was in the backseat, engrossed in making two Hot Wheels cars zoom in circles on the seat beside him. Burt glanced in the mirror to check on him just as Kurt mimed a collision and subsequent explosion, the two cars spinning in slow-motion in his hands.

"Boom! Kapow-psssh!"

Glancing at his watch to make sure they had enough time to get to Athens before Kurt's evaluation interview, Burt listened as Kurt hummed tunelessly along with the radio while he played. It was remarkable, really, just how detailed Zack's presence was – every tiny mannerism, expression, and movement was identical to that of a typical four-year-old boy. Even the way he laughed.

Burt had always heard other parents talking about how quickly their kids grew up and changed and "Oh, before you know it, you'll be missing the midnight nightmare hugs…" Up until Kurt's official diagnosis, he'd nodded his head and agreed with them. Now, if he heard a mother or father echo those overused statements, Burt would swallow and quietly wait for the subject to change.

After Kurt had disfigured the bedroom wall during the night, Burt had run after him to make sure he wouldn't do anything potentially dangerous. Neither he nor Carole had slept for the remainder of the night, even after they'd finally gotten Kurt back into his room and tied the door shut. It had taken the two of them almost half an hour to scrape the torn wallpaper away from the markings and realize that the lines Kurt had carved were not, in fact, random at all – though once they realized what they were, it still didn't make any sense whatsoever.

"Is that… Chinese?" Carole had said, staring at the jagged lines in the wood. What Burt had previously thought to be an ill-defined rectangle actually proved to be a series of four Chinese symbols, one on top of the other in a short vertical line. He couldn't even begin to fathom how Kurt would know any Chinese, let alone any of the alters, which made Zack's appearance in their bedroom all the more upsetting.

Steeling his nerves, Burt reached forward and switched off the radio. Kurt's head immediately snapped up from the miniature car race taking place on his lap. "Aww, I like that song," he complained.

Burt couldn't help but snort. "You like Moves Like Jagger?"

"What's a Jagger?"

"Never mind."

"Can you turn the music back on?"

"No, we need to talk about something first."

Kurt made one of the toy cars skid sideways, complete with sound effects. "Where are we going?" he asked once the miniature Camarro had suffered a violent spinout and crashed into the back of the seat.

"I told you, we're going to see a new doctor, remember?" Burt replied, switching on the windshield wipers as snowflakes because to dot the glass.

Kurt didn't seem to hear him at all. "Can we go to Chuck E. Cheese later?"

"Zack," Burt said sternly.

"What?"

"Let's try to focus, okay? Can you put the cars down?" Kurt dropped the cars onto the seat and sat back to look out the window, and Burt exhaled, keeping his eyes on the road. "Why were you in my room last night?"

Kurt didn't respond, only watching the other cars pass by.

"Answer me, Zack."

"I wasn't in your room."

Burt gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. "I saw you," he insisted. "Zack—"

"I didn't do it!" Kurt shouted suddenly, making Burt jump in the driver's seat.

Burt frowned for a moment, watching Kurt glare out the window. "Zack… I didn't say you did anything."

Kurt pulled his legs up against his torso, resting his chin on his knees and refusing to look in Burt's direction.

"You're not in trouble," Burt promised. "I just want to know why you put those marks on the wall."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

Burt's heart lurched as he saw Kurt's eyes fill with tears, and Kurt said something too quiet to hear.

"What was that?"

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut. "I hate you."

In the choir room, Rachel sat quietly in the back with her notebook on her lap, editing her notes for the Regionals set list that she'd come up with. The rest of the club was spread around the room, on the risers or by the piano or fooling around with the band equipment, talking amongst themselves. Rachel was keeping one eye on the door to the hallway since the only club member missing was Finn, and nowadays Rachel made a point to be hyper-aware of Finn's moods. Showing up late to Glee meant one of two things: one, Finn had fallen asleep in his last class, or two, he was so preoccupied that he was having a hard time keeping track of his schedule. Considering everything that was going on in the Hudson-Hummels' household, Rachel would be willing to bet her future stardom on the latter possibility.

Her suspicion was confirmed when Finn finally walked in looking a little rushed and worn out, sitting next to her with barely a nod in greeting.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah. What are you doing?" He gestured to her notebook.

Rachel could easily see that he was trying to deflect her interest, but she figured that she'd give him the space for now. If Kurt was going into the hospital in a few days, then Finn would have a little more time to breathe then. Instead, she responded by launching into a detailed description of her ideas for Regionals, to which Finn nodded and oohed and aahed in all the right places.

"…so then, once the Troubletones are finished with their girl-power number, we'd launch straight into I Believe I Can Fly, which I thought would make a fantastic closing song that the judges would remember, especially if we can re-arrange it into a rock cover—"

"Okay, heads up, everyone," Mr. Schue cut in, striding into the room with his briefcase over one shoulder and an envelope in his hand. The group fell quiet and situated themselves on the risers while Mr. Schue dropped his briefcase onto the top of the piano. "I've gotten our letter from the National Show Choir Board, so we can finally start planning for Regionals in earnest."

The group exchanged excited glances as Mr. Schue opened the letter. "We're up against the Warblers, of course, and a madrigal choir called the Golden Goblets. Not… exactly sure what their deal is, but from the sound of it they should be fairly easy to beat. Traditional stool choir."

Several of the kids clapped or nodded confidently, and Rachel felt slightly more relaxed knowing that they only needed to worry about the Warblers.

"As for the judges' expectations this year," Mr. Schue continued. "We've still got to do a ballad, and the competition theme is 'heart.'"

Rachel almost laughed out loud. The themes that the NSCB came up with were nearly always lame and/or silly, and this year's wasn't any different. Still… She glanced down at her notes, already rearranging and switching out no-longer-applicable songs with more appropriate ones. At least 'heart' was an elastic theme open to a wide variety of interpretations.

Her arm shot into the air, and Mr. Schue raised his eyebrows at her. "Yes, Rachel?"

"I think we should dedicate the performance to Kurt," she rushed.

Finn blinked, his head whipping around to stare at her in shock, but she pushed forward and addressed the whole room.

"The theme is heart," she insisted. "We've repeatedly stated that we're a family, and yet we're going to be performing with Kurt absent. I don't know if this has sunk in yet for most of you, but Kurt's not going to be missing just this performance. He's not coming back at all. In my opinion as Glee captain but also as Kurt's friend, it would be ludicrous not to show him that we support and care about him."

Mr. Schue glanced at the rest of the club. "Anyone else?"

Rachel looked expectantly at Mercedes and Finn, but the both of them seemed to be wrapped up in their own thoughts, and instead it was Puck who spoke up first.

"That Unitard chick posted on Facebook saying that since Kurt's crazy, we're going to be killed at Regionals," he grumbled. "I say we shove it up her ass. For Kurt."

Mr. Schue didn't even bother reprimanding Puck for the language. "All those in favor?"

Thirteen hands shot into the air.

The snow was beginning to fall more thickly, but Burt was having a hard time concentrating on the road ahead. Kurt had remained silent for the past twenty minutes straight, crying quietly with his chin resting on his knees while he watched the snowflakes stick to the window. "Zack," Burt said for at least the tenth time. "Please talk to me. I want to help you feel better."

A few extra tears slid down Kurt's cheeks and dripped onto his knees. "I don't want Kurt to feel better."

Burt blinked, startled. "What? Why?" There was no response for several seconds, and Burt's stomach curled painfully in his gut. "Zack," he pressed. "Why don't you want Kurt to feel better?"

Kurt only sniffed, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve.

"Zack, answer me," said Burt, his tone turning forceful. He almost didn't care about frightening Zack at this point; he was desperate.

Burt sighed when he glanced in the mirror and saw that Kurt's eyes were half-closed and empty. His questions for Zack would have to wait. By this point, they were approaching the exit to Dublin, and Burt thought of stopping to pick up some lunch-to-go in Columbus. He wasn't very hungry, though, and Kurt tended to turn up his nose at the food Burt would buy.

Burt jumped a little when Kurt sucked in a breath, sitting up and looking around the car for a moment to figure out where he was. He then settled back with a half-formed smirk plastered to his face, and unbuckled his seat belt.

"What are you doing?" Burt demanded as Kurt pulled himself through the gap between the front seats, clambering down into the passenger seat and very nearly elbowing Burt in the face. "Sit down!"

"So, we going to the crazy doctor?" Kurt asked as he pulled open the glove compartment and withdrew a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Burt grimaced as Kurt stuck a cigarette between his teeth.

"If that's what you want to call it," Burt said. "Give me that." Keeping one eye on the road, he reached over and snatched the lit cigarette out of Kurt's mouth, rolling down the window and tossing it out.

Kurt narrowed his eyes at his father and blew the inhalation of smoke directly at Burt's face, then slouched down and propped one foot up on the dashboard.

Burt coughed, blinking away the mild burning in his eyes. "I don't even want to know how many times you've stolen my car if you've got a tobacco stash in the glove compartment," he remarked.

Kurt rolled his eyes at the snowflakes collected on the windshield. "Isn't it your job to keep track of your own shit?"

"Yeah, well, you know what, Truman? That'd be a lot easier if you'd stop stealing it."

"Whatever, Grandpa," Kurt snapped. "Is the doctor going to give us any pills? 'Cause we could always make that a party."

Burt huffed in irritation. "Why are you here?" he asked in exasperation. He'd always had trouble with Truman especially – his voice, his words, his promiscuity and general attitude towards everything. "Why isn't Kurt out right now?"

Kurt flashed him a scathing look. "How the fuck should I know?"

"Truman, we've been through this. You are Kurt."

"Oh, fuck off, would you? I'm not Craig; I don't need the you're-all-the-same-psycho speech, okay?" Kurt spat. "I know we share the body. But I'm not Kurt. Got it?"

Burt frowned in confusion. "Help me understand, then," he said, forcing himself to remain somewhat calm. It wouldn't do any good to trigger another transition. "Why are you here?"

"Hey, I don't control this shit any more than Kurt does, so get the fuck off my case."

"You're in a bad mood," Burt commented. When Kurt ignored the observation, Burt approached him from a different angle. "Truman, do you know why Zack's upset?"

Kurt grinned abruptly, and the expression made Burt feel queasy.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Zack is."

"Why? You like it when Zack's unhappy?"

A chuckle worked its way out of Kurt's throat. "Let's just say he's entertaining."