Artie had long since decided that it was probably best not to get involved with all this outside the production of his movie. The good news was that his applications weren't due until sometime in the winter – he wanted to apply for early admission but if the Hudson-Hummels needed time for things to calm down then Artie was more than willing to wait. For now, though, everyone seemed to have forgotten about it but him.

Which was totally fine. Again – not involved.

That didn't stop Artie from being worried when Finn didn't show up to school for two days straight, though, or from being surprised when he walked in and sat down at the lunch table on Thursday as if he'd never been gone.

"Dude, where have you been?" Mike asked, his eyebrows raised and his mouth half full of Ruffles.

"I took some time off," Finn replied casually. Rachel seemed to be the only one at the table not giving Finn a questioning or surprised look, so Artie guessed they'd already seen each other and talked sometime that morning.

"What for?" Rory pressed.

Artie had to suppress an eyeroll. Regardless of his own personal conflict with Rory where Sugar was concerned, what was going on in the Hudson-Hummel family wasn't any more Rory's business than it was Artie's. If he'd had the ability to move his legs, he'd probably have kicked Mr. Potato Head's shin under the table.

"I just wanted to," Finn answered with a shrug, his voice tight.

Artie's jaw nearly dropped when Quinn decided to open her mouth and deposit her two cents. "You should've at least called Rachel and told her you were okay," she said, matter-of-fact. "She was freaking out."

Finn's eyes hardened and Rachel frowned. "Quinn, it's fine."

Sugar shrugged. "I think it was really selfish," she said, her tone sickly sweet.

Artie braced himself for a rant from Rachel defending her boyfriend or a snappish retort from Finn (both of which would have been justified), but was startled when Blaine, who was sitting by Artie's elbow, opened his mouth instead.

"Would you shut up?"

Blaine's fork clanked against his plate, and all eyes turned to him. Sugar's jaw clacked audibly shut.

"It's no one's business except Finn's," Blaine snapped, then turned to glare at Quinn. "Quinn, you have been the absolute worst 'supportive' friend over the past couple of months, and none of us want to talk to you or ask for your help because we all knowyou'll be judgmental and condescending more than anything else you claim to be. So you really don't have a right to tell Finn what he should or shouldn't do."

Blaine stopped for a breath, then turned to the second offender.

"And Sugar," he said slowly. "No one cares what you think."

Sugar huffed, her eyes narrowed as Blaine picked up his fork again, and Quinn shook her head, stabbing irritatedly at her salad. The rest of the people around the table – including Finn – remained silent in shock. Artie nudged Blaine and gave him a fist bump under the table.

Mercedes was pretty sure she had a good idea of why she'd been pulled out of class and called to Miss Pillsbury's office after lunch, but that didn't make her any less anxious.

And apparently, Miss Pillsbury was just as uncomfortable. Fidgeting and wringing her hands, Miss Pillsbury seemed to tremble in her chair, looking something akin to a deer in headlights. "Mercedes…" she started. "Several of your teachers have said to me that your grades are starting to drop."

Mercedes frowned in mild confusion. She hadn't expected to be talking about schoolwork, but it was definitely preferable to being forced into discussing her emotions with a woman who insisted on cleaning the sink before she washed her hands.

"Okay…" she said.

"Well, can you tell me why?" Miss Pillsbury prompted.

"I don't really know."

Miss Pillsbury leaned her elbows on the desk top, lacing her spidery fingers together. "Mercedes, I need to know if you're okay."

Mercedes' stomach twisted slightly. "Did Mr. Schue ask you to check up on me?" she wanted to know.

Miss Pillsbury's eyes grew wider than Mercedes had previously thought possible. "N-no," she stammered, her orange curls bouncing around her shoulders as she shook her head. "But, um… he did tell me that you haven't really been participating in rehearsals lately. He said you've been turning down solos?"

Miss Pillsbury's last statement hadn't been a question, so Mercedes didn't know why she'd phrased it like it was. She was beginning to feel very cornered.

Giving what she hoped came across as a nonchalant shrug, Mercedes responded with her own half-question. "So what?"

"That doesn't really sound like you," Miss Pillsbury observed, and Mercedes wanted to snap back that Miss Pillsbury really didn't know her at all. "Is everything all right at home?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Everything's fine."

Stop pushing.

Miss Pillsbury pursed her lips and managed not to say anything for about four seconds. "Does this have to do with Kurt?" she asked softly.

God damn it.

Mercedes stared at her for a long time, simultaneously wanting to scream and shout and never talk or think about Kurt again.

At long last, her lower lip trembling and her vision starting to blur, Mercedes spoke.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed, swiping at her eyes.

Miss Pillsbury nodded sympathetically. "I have something for you," she said, and for half a second Mercedes thought that Miss Pillsbury might actually be able to offer some words of real comfort or solid advice or, hell, a hug. But then she pulled a pamphlet out of her drawer and leaned across the desk to push it into Mercedes' hand.

The words MY BEST FRIEND IS CRAZY! jumped out from the cover in pastel blue block letters juxtaposed above a comical cartoon figure of a woman tearing her hair out in frustration. Mercedes had to beat down an urge to do the exact same.

"It was originally written for people who had friends with bipolar disorder," Miss Pillsbury explained proudly. "But I think it'll be useful for you—"

Not really thinking at all about what she was doing, Mercedes ripped the pamphlet in two, slamming the torn halves onto the desk and lurching to her feet.

"Get a degree," she spat, not even remotely caring that Miss Pillsbury looked like she'd just swallowed a hand grenade without the pin.

Mercedes made it out the door and only twenty feet down the hallway before breaking down completely.

After the last bell of the day, Puck headed to the boys' locker room to pack up some of his football gear left over from the fall (Coach Beiste had finally snapped and yelled at him in the hallway for not taking care of it sooner), and he found Finn sitting on one of the benches in a t-shirt and shorts, tying his sneakers.

"Hey, dude," Puck nodded in greeting, leaning a shoulder against the bank of lockers. "What're you doing?"

"Going out to run laps," Finn answered. He shrugged. "You know, blow off some steam." He finished tying his shoes and stood up.

"Wait up a second; I'll come with you," Puck said, ducking around the corner to his own locker to grab his running shoes. He pulled them onto his feet as fast as he could, yanked off his sweatshirt, and was almost surprised to find that Finn had actually waited for him.

Exchanging absolutely no conversation back and forth (Finn seemed to be wrapped up in his own thoughts), the two of them walked out to the track and broke into a jog. They fell easily into pace with each other, a practice perfected by years of football training together, both of them ignoring the freezing early March air passing over their exposed skin. They'd warm up soon enough.

For Puck, the biggest problem with this whole thing (besides trying to understand what the hell was making Kurt sick) was knowing where Finn stood. Finn had always been an open book and it was so clear that there was something very wrong now, but Puck just didn't know any more how Finn would react to offered support. To be honest, it was more than a little scary.

Eventually, Puck lost track of the number of laps they'd run, though it probably didn't matter all that much. He kept glancing at Finn out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge just how much steam Finn had left to blow off, but it was hard to tell.

He decided to take a risk with a mildly probing question. Finn was faster and had longer legs, but he was a klutz and Puck had more endurance, so if Finn got pissed off, then Puck could always outrun him.

"So… can I ask how Kurt's doing?" he started. "Or is that, like, taboo?"

To Puck's surprise, Finn stopped running. Puck slowed to a stop beside him, waiting for Finn to respond. Finn ran a hand over the back of his neck, swallowing.

"Okay, look," he said abruptly. "You cannot say anything about this. To anyone."

Puck frowned, almost startled by the seriousness of Finn's tone. "It's really that bad?"

"Just promise me."

Puck immediately raised his right hand. "Swear to God."

Finn let out an odd huff of breath, as if he was getting ready to jump off a cliff into the ocean – he'd probably be safe, but he wouldn't know for sure until he hit the water.

"What's going on?" Puck prompted when Finn said nothing for several seconds.

"I don't even know; that's the problem," Finn snapped (Puck couldn't tell what exactly he was mad at). He let out another huff, shaking his head. "And the worst part is, there's nothing that I can do."

"Wait, I'm confused," Puck stopped him. "What happened?"

Then, the floodgates opened and the dam burst.

Finn was ranting, spilling everything Puck had thought he might be dealing with and ten times more. Puck was pretty sure he was missing at least a third of all that Finn was talking about – the screams and knives and the unwanted late-night visits – and the reason they'd only hung out at Puck's house for the past two years suddenly became glaringly obvious.

Puck felt sick.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed when, at long last, Finn finished. The wind had picked up slightly and by now they'd lost the heat of their run. Finn was shivering.

"How the hell is any of that possible?" Puck asked, saying the first thing that popped into his head and not really expecting an answer. He didn't know what was more disturbing – the fact that Kurt could have been killed in his own head (what) or the fact that the same counterpart who had hit on Puck just two months ago had molested his best friend.

At this point, Puck wouldn't have been surprised if right this second his stomach tried to reject the chips and dip he'd eaten an hour ago.

"Does Blaine know about any of this?" he asked.

Finn shook his head. "No. No one does."

"Not even Rachel?"

"Are you kidding? I've never seen her keep a secret for more than an hour."

"Jesus Christ," Puck repeated. "So… this is why you've been acting so weird lately?"

Finn gave a half shrug. "I guess. Yeah."

Both boys were quiet for several long moments, Puck trying to process everything Finn had just unloaded and Finn no doubt trying to recover from it.

Puck was the first to break the silence. "Do you need, like, a hug or something?"

Finn breathed out slowly through his nose, then nodded. "Yeah."

As Burt was attempting to put together a quick dinner for himself and Finn (Carole had picked up an extra shift at work), the phone rang on the counter behind him. Wiping bits of lettuce off his fingers, he grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"Burt, it's Hiram."

In the space of half a second, Burt forgot entirely about the salad. "What's going on? Did John Truman hire a lawyer?"

"Uh, no," Hiram replied. His voice was tight. "At least, not yet. But, um…"

"What is it?" Burt pressed, his stomach churning.

The receiver buzzed as Hiram let out a breath. "You remember I told you that the Toledo police recovered evidence from John Truman's apartment of his past, um, indecencies…"

Oh, God…

"They faxed me everything they found relating to Kurt. You might want— Well, actually, I'm certain you don't want to see this, but that's up to you."

Burt's pulse was roaring in his ears, blocking out nearly everything else. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The drive to the Berrys' house passed in a blur, and Hiram opened the door only three seconds after Burt rang the bell.

"Burt, before you do this," Hiram stopped him on the way to the study. "Before you open this door, you need to be absolutely sureyou want to see it."

Burt didn't want to see it. He really didn't, but he knew he had to. He owed it to Kurt.

"Hiram, I'm Kurt's father," he said lowly, his voice unsteady and his expression hard. "I need to know exactly why my kid's in the hospital right now."

Hiram's mouth pressed into a thin line, and he nodded. "Okay," he said, and entered the study with Burt following behind. He'd put the faxed sheets in a red manila folder, which he picked up from the top of his desk to hand to Burt. "You may want to sit down."

Burt ignored him, flipping the folder open, and then he did sit down.

Sinking into the chair across from Hiram's desk, Burt wasn't sure he could do anything but stare. The top sheet was a copy of a photograph, showing an impossibly tiny boy lying on his side in a bed with rocketship-print sheets that Burt vaguely remembered buying from Target with Kurt riding in the shopping cart.

"I HATE rockets!" an echo of Kurt's voice yelled in the back of Burt's head. Before his fifth birthday Kurt had cut the sheets to shreds with the scissors from his craft kit.

A small black patch had been pasted onto the photo to preserve Kurt's modesty, but he was naked and half-curled on the bed like he was waiting for the photographer to unleash a well-deserved punishment.

His fingers cold and shaking, Burt moved on to the next picture, bile burning the base of his throat.

In this photo, Kurt was standing in the middle of his bedroom floor in their old house, and Burt was struck with the sudden and agonizing realization of why Kurt had asked to move into the basement years later. He was again naked except for the black patch, and Burt couldn't help thinking it was a little too late for preservation. His stomach jerked and twisted when he saw the finger-shaped bruises around Kurt's neck and narrow hips. Kurt had turned his head away from the camera, his arms hugging his skinny torso.

He's so little.

The last picture was in the same location, and Kurt hadn't moved between the two. But his arms had dropped and he was looking directly into the lens, and it was so, so much worse.

Then, with all the force of a bullet train slamming into him at full speed, Burt realized that he wasn't looking at his four-year-old son.

It wasn't Kurt.

It was Schism.