Kurt was startled awake the next morning by his phone buzzing loudly against his bedside table, blasting the Doctor Who theme only a moment later. There was a disgruntled snort from the other side of Kurt's bed, which scared him for a split second until he remembered that his dad had insisted on sleeping there for the night. He quickly hit the Answer button so the ringing wouldn't wake Burt up.

"Hold on," he said quietly into the phone, standing and briskly walking into the hall. He shut the door and leaned against the wall, holding the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"I'm glad you answered."

Kurt blinked in surprise. "Artie? What's going on?"

"Nothing major, I just…" Artie trailed off. "I have a few minutes before classes start and I wanted to call and… you know, see if you were okay."

Kurt frowned. Artie sounded… flustered. Like he was working up the courage to ask something but couldn't quite help putting it off just a little longer. "Well, I guess I'm all right," he replied. "Can I ask what prompted this?"

"I… I heard you were admitted to that hospital in Athens," Artie rushed.

There it was. The subject Artie didn't want to breach.

Kurt's stomach clenched and he very nearly hung up then and there. Instead, he gritted his teeth and responded as steadily as he could. "New travels fast," he said. "Who told you?"

"Sam."

Kurt sighed. He did not want to talk about this. And how the hell had Sam found out anyways?

Thankfully, Artie seemed to pick up on Kurt's reluctance and changed the subject. "So you think you'll make it to Regionals?"

Kurt's stomach twisted a second time. "Artie… I'm not coming back to school. I'm not allowed on the premises and even if I was, I couldn't be relied on to make it to rehearsals."

"Uh, I knew that. Sorry. I meant just to see us perform. You know, as an audience member."

"Oh."

"So…"

"I don't know…" Kurt exhaled slowly. He didn't want to talk to Artie about everything he was missing and he didn't want to thinkabout any of this at all. "It depends on what's going on then."

It depends on whether I'm medicated or screaming or in solitary confinement or whether I'm even HERE.

"That's okay," Artie said. "We miss you, though. Don't forget it."

"Thanks," Kurt mumbled, not really sure if he wanted to remember. It would just make everything so much harder.

There was the sound of the hallway bell in the background on Artie's end, and Artie huffed. "Okay, I gotta go to Spanish. Mr. Schue is making us emulate the Buena Vista Social Club today. Again. Anyways, bye, Kurt. You'll be okay."

The line clicked and Kurt swallowed, leaning his head back against the wall. He tried to focus on the solidity of the floor beneath his feet rather than the straining in his head as Eleanor or Craig or maybe Robbie were grabbing at the reins, but the effort mostly just made him feel nauseous. He managed to stay conscious for about sixty seconds before he felt himself fall backwards into the black.

As much as Carole loved Burt with all her heart as both her husband and as his own man, she admired him even more. She had absolutely no idea how on earth he'd managed to keep himself and Kurt barely afloat for so many years on his own, especially when for several of those years he hadn't even known what the problem was. After just a year and a few months, Carole was completely exhausted.

Not that she was complaining, per se. She loved Kurt as a son and she was just as happy to help him as she would be if Finn were in Kurt's shoes (though the thought of Finn screaming in his room with the door tied shut was enough to force her to sit down and catch her breath).

But still. Kurt's impending hospitalization was something she was glad of. Not just because Kurt needed a place where people actually had a clue how to help him, but also because Burt needed a break. Otherwise he could crack under the pressure at any given moment.

Today was Friday, which meant that they had two more days before Kurt's official admittance. Two more days to make sure he knew that they weren't just sending him away so they could be rid of him, and two more days to remind him that he was actually going to be missed. She was already planning on making a big breakfast for Kurt of all his favorite comfort foods, but for the moment both Kurt and Burt seemed to be enjoying the (very) rare luxury of sleeping in, so Carole was making use of the time and collecting the ridiculous amounts of laundry that had been building up over the past several days.

As she toted a basket of whites down the basement stairs, she halted for a second halfway down, surprised by the steady whir-whir-whir-whir coming from the cellar. "Kurt?" she called as she descended the last few steps, hefting the basket in her arms as she saw Kurt jogging on her treadmill. (Once Burt's salary had increased when he was elected, she'd insisted on getting the treadmill for herself, but hadn't ended up using it much as of yet.)

"I'm surprised you're up," she said, dropping the laundry basket in front of the washing machine by the wall.

Kurt didn't reply and she was about to go over and make sure he was there, but she noticed he was wearing his iPod headphones, so she shrugged it off and went back to loading the washer.

Once she was done, she went over to the treadmill. "Hey, Kurt, you want some breakfast?" she called loudly, waving at him to pull out the earbuds.

He nimbly jumped off the treadmill, yanking out the headphones and tossing the wire over his shoulder. "What?"

Carole blinked at the voice. She should have guessed that Truman was the one in control at the moment, considering that Kurt rarely did jogging and he was barely out of breath. "Sorry, I thought Kurt was here."

Kurt shook his head with a smirk, taking a deep gulp from his water bottle. His grey tank top was stained with sweat and plastered to his chest. "I'm just trying to keep Kurt's ass in shape," he said. "Maybe if he got screwed more often he wouldn't be so fucking tense."

Carole winced. "I'd really appreciate you not talking about that kind of thing in front of me, Truman."

Kurt rolled his eyes and took another swig of water. "You're such a prude. Jesus."

"Well, if you want breakfast, I'll be making up some pancakes in a few minutes," she said sharply, annoyed by Truman's insult but deciding not to respond to it. "But you're only welcome at the table if you can be polite."

Kurt snorted and set his water bottle on the top of the dryer. "Yeah, whatever," he said as he turned his back to Carole and pulled his shirt over his head.

Carole turned to leave, then stopped short. "What's that on your back?"

Kurt didn't respond, and Carole stared at the two perfectly round pockmarks – one on his left shoulder blade and the other at the bottom of his left ribs – for several seconds before her heart lurched. "Oh my God…" she breathed.

Kurt grimaced at her over his shoulder. "What the hell are you upset about?"

"Ku— Truman, where did those come from?" Carole pressed.

"Fuck off."

"Answer me."

Kurt paused, then turned around with the iciest glare Carole had ever seen on his face. And then she felt her heart almost rip in two.

His chest and torso were peppered with cigarette burns identical to the scars on his back. Small, round, horribly puckered patches of skin scattered in a gut-wrenching caricature of a child's connect-the-dots drawing.

"Kurt…" Carole whispered, her hands rising to cover her mouth.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Kurt demanded, pulling her attention back up to his face. "I'm not Kurt."

Carole's nerves were far too disquieted to worry about making Truman angry. "Truman, where did those come from?" she asked again, her voice trembling in desperation.

"Would you just fuck off already?" he snapped, snatching his water bottle off the dryer and heading for the stairs.

"Truman, stop!" Carole cried, reaching to grab his arm. "I want—"

Kurt whipped around and gripped her wrist, wrenching it in a direction that it wasn't supposed to bend. She yelped and tried unsuccessfully to pull away. "I told you to fuck off," he snarled before letting her go.

She backed a few steps away from him, cradling her wrist. "I just want to help," she insisted.

He only rolled his eyes and turned to stomp up the stairs. "Fat bitch," he spat over his shoulder, and the door slammed shut behind him.