"What are we supposed to do?" Burt cried, pacing the floor of Dr. McManus' office and repeatedly rubbing at the back of his neck, like he was trying to keep the hairs from standing on end. "How the hell are we supposed to get Kurt integrated if he's not even here to help the process?"

McManus chewed on one prong of his glasses, fiddling with a glass paperweight on his desk top. Carole was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, her fingers wringing into the fabric of her scarf.

"It'll be more difficult without Kurt here," McManus said, his features contorted into a deep frown. "We need to get one or two of the alters to work with us, but that's easier said than done."

Burt sent the doctor a glare. "Why would that even work? Truman's going around saying he killed Kurt and you think he'd helpus?"

"I never said Truman," McManus replied calmly, understanding that a large percentage of Burt's rage stemmed from sheer frustration. "During our session on Thursday, I got a very strong feeling that Craig and Eleanor would both be cooperative."

"I don't care what it takes," Burt snapped. "I want that psychopath out of my son's head!"

"Wait, wait…" Carole interrupted, her voice wavering. "You said 'without Kurt'… Do— Does that mean he's—?" Her neck tensed as she swallowed. Burt stopped his pacing.

McManus paused, then released a sigh, placing his hands flat against his desk. "Unfortunately, it's—"

"No," Burt spat, shaking his head and resuming his pacing. "No. Do not tell me—"

"Burt," McManus cut him off. "Please." He waited for Burt's jaw to clamp shut before continuing. "I'm sorry to say that it's uncommon but not impossible for one alter to eliminate another, and unfortunately that does include predominants."

Carole's already-watery eyes spilled over, and she raised a hand to her mouth.

"It is possible, however – hell, it's probable – that Truman is lying," McManus added. "Most likely Kurt has only been pushed into a place where it's a little harder for him to get out. But," he said before the glint of hope in Carole's eyes could get too bright, "you both need to prepare yourselves for the possibility that Kurt does not come back."

"This is actually kinda nice," said Hiram as he sat down to dinner with Leroy and Sam. Rachel was spending the night at Sugar's house along with the rest of the girls (something about dying their hair for Regionals, Hiram wasn't entirely sure). "I can't remember the last time I had a meal with just guys."

"That's only because you refuse to go out for drinks with any of the guys from your office," Leroy retorted as he dealt out servings of Chinese takeout.

"—which is only because you always refuse to come with me," Hiram fired back smoothly, making Sam chuckle. Leroy rolled his eyes with a grin. "So, Sam, what can you tell us about the set list for the competition tomorrow?"

Sam shrugged. "I'd totally tell you but Rachel would kill me if I spilled."

"Fair point."

Leroy shook his head, helping himself to the fried duck. "I love Rachel with all my heart, but that girl does need to learn to curb her enthusiasm once in a while."

Sam gave another shrug, his mouth half full. "She's fine," he said. "You get used to it pretty quickly."

"Still—"

Leroy was cut off as the phone rang shrilly from Hiram's study, surprising everyone at the table. The phone line there was rarely used after Hiram's working hours, and only his office and a few select clients had the number, as well as Leroy and Rachel in case of emergency.

"Excuse me," said Hiram, placing his napkin on the table as he stood and walked quickly to the study. "Hello?" he answered the phone on its fifth ring.

"Hiram, it's Burt Hummel."

Hiram's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, hello, how are you?"

Rather than reply, Burt skipped the small talk entirely and got right to the point. "I found the guy."

He didn't need to clarify, and Hiram lightly swung the door to his office shut (not missing the looks of confusion on Leroy and Sam's faces as he did so). "You found him? Where?"

"We have his contact information in my wife's old address book," Burt explained, his voice tight. "I want to do this right. I want to see him put away."

"Well, you definitely called the right person," Hiram said, yanking a notepad and pen from his desk. "Give me the information. I'll get the police chief's help and we'll track him down."

Burt read him the address and phone number, then added, "I don't know if it's accurate – the address book's over ten years old."

"It's a place to start. We'll find him, and I'll make sure he rots in an eight-by-twelve cell."

Burt was up to his elbows in the engine of a 1965 Chevy, trying unsuccessfully to disconnect the rusted-over carburetor and only half-listening to the tinny rock'n'roll coming from the portable radio on his worktable. It was technically not his responsibility to work in the shop any more, but with the storm of paranoia and medical bills and worry and fear surrounding Kurt right now, Burt needed something a little bit mindless for at least a couple hours.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, gritting his teeth as he pulled on the wrench as hard as he could, grunting when it finally gave. He pulled the engine piece out, grimacing as he brushed thick flakes of rust off onto his coveralls and dropped the junked carburetor onto the worktable.

As he grabbed his clipboard and scribbled out several equations to calculate the cost of this particular part replacement, a strange noise from behind him made him glance over his shoulder. "Hello?" he called. No one should've been there – it was the weekend so Randy and the rest of the guys had all gotten off work at noon, and by now it had to be at least five-thirty.

He shook his head and shrugged, turning back to his clipboard and managing to jot down a few more numbers before he heard the sound again – faint and difficult to hear above the music. Burt reached over and switched the radio off. "Hello?" he called again. "Finn? Carole?" Maybe one of them had brought him dinner.

There was silence except for the distant sounds of traffic passing by on the road outside. Burt waited, and finally heard the noise again. An odd shuffling sound, accented by what sounded like a pained whimper, almost like a dog.

"Hello?" Burt repeated, his heart skipping. "Who's there?"

Another whimper, and the scrape of a shoe against the cement floor. Burt dropped his clipboard onto the worktable, walking slowly in the direction of the sound. "Who's there?" he demanded.

His stomach flipped over when he realized that the whimper was in fact a single word.

"…Dad…"

Burt quickened his pace. "Kurt?" he called, his voice growing desperate. "Kurt, where are you?"

"Dad—" Kurt's voice was abruptly choked off, as if he'd suddenly stopped breathing.

"Kurt!" Burt shouted, peering behind a line of waiting cars. "Where are you?"

"Dad!"

Burt stopped short, whirling around. Kurt's voice had suddenly come from the opposite direction, from the other corner of the garage. "Kurt!"

"H-Help me!" Kurt cried, his voice trembling in pain as it dissolved into violent sobs. "Daddy!" he screamed.

Burt ran after him, his eyes wildly searching all the garage's nooks and crannies as Kurt's cries grew louder, reverberating between the cement floor and aluminum roof until it was so loud that Burt could barely hear anything else. "Kurt, where are you?!"

"Dad?"

The echoes vanished more quickly than they'd begun, and Burt whipped around when Kurt's voice seemed to come from right behind him.

Kurt was standing in the middle of the floor, doubled over and clutching his stomach, his face contorted in agony. "D-Dad—" he choked out, gasping. "It hurts—"

"Jesus, Kurt," Burt breathed, and rushed over just in time to stop Kurt from falling to his knees. Kurt's hands shook even as his fingers dug into his abdomen, as if he were trying to physically grab the pain and yank it out. Burt held his shoulders, keeping him upright. "Come on," he said. "We're going to the hospital."

Looping his arm around Kurt's waist, Burt hefted his weight and began to half-drag Kurt towards the door. Kurt's breath was beginning to come in short gasps, and Burt could tell the pain was getting worse. "Stay with me, kiddo," Burt urged as he shoved open the door, heading for his truck.

Somehow, he managed to get Kurt into the passenger seat. Kurt couldn't stand up straight and once he was in the car he only curled more tightly around himself, as if that would somehow alleviate the agonizing cramps. Burt jumped into the driver's seat and revved the engine, pealing out of the garage lot and onto the road.

"Dad, it hu-hurts," Kurt sobbed, one hand clutching his stomach and the other wrapped around the door handle, his knuckles and fingertips gone white.

"Stay with me, Kurt," Burt repeated loudly, swerving in and out of traffic. He had tunnel vision now: Kurt. Hospital. Now. Kurt. Hospital. Now.

"I w-was looking f-for you," Kurt heaved, tears running freely down his cheeks. "You w-weren't there— AH!" His head jerked back and his body convulsed, his legs kicking slightly as if fighting off some invisible attacker.

"Kurt, talk to me," Burt pressed, his heart beating violently against his ribs like it was trying to escape. "Tell me what's happening. Keep your eyes open!"

Kurt flinched, his eyes fluttering. He was losing consciousness.

"Stay awake!" Burt ordered, panicking as his eyes jumped back and forth between the road ahead and his son writhing in the seat beside him.

"Dad—!" Kurt gasped, his eyes going wide. He shuddered as if he was about to vomit.

Burt jumped and swerved off the road when he glanced at Kurt and saw something in his mouth that hadn't been there a few moments before. He pulled the emergency brake and leaned over to grip Kurt's shoulders, nearly letting out a yell when he realized there were human fingers reaching out from Kurt's throat.

Kurt shuddered again, his chest heaving as he failed to breathe. The fingers reached forward and pulled themselves further out, followed by the rest of a hand, and Burt was unable to do anything other than stare helplessly.

Kurt's jaw was forced open as the hand was followed by a forearm, and then an elbow. The arm moved, reaching out from Kurt's mouth and looking for something to grab, and Burt struggled not to vomit.

As the arm grew longer, Kurt's eyes flickered shut and he lost consciousness. A moment later there was a sickening crack as his jaw was broken; his body barely twitched in response. Burt shook Kurt's shoulder, desperately pleading with him to wake up.

The arm extending from Kurt's mouth whipped around and grabbed Burt by the throat.

He woke up in a cold sweat.