The playground was quieter than usual. The air was tight and constricting, as if the playground was trapped under a dome and Kurt was running out of oxygen. It was oppressive, and harder to breathe than in the hospital ward. There wasn't even the tiniest breeze moving over Kurt's skin, and the sky was perfectly clear. It made Kurt tense and anxious.

Kurt tugged a hand through his hair, glancing nervously toward where Eleanor was talking to Zack underneath the playground platforms and Robbie was lounging boredly on a bench on the other side of the slide. Truman was jabbing at Schism with a stick through the bars of the jungle gym. Schism wasn't reacting at all, which only seemed to make Truman try harder to annoy him.

Heaving an uneasy sigh, Kurt walked toward the empty swing set, ignoring the alters for the time being. He approached the swings with his heart thudding loudly in his head. The paint along the top bar was flaking, charred and blackened, and one of the swings was dragging in the dirt, hanging by only one chain. He didn't think anyone used the other swing any more.

The dirt underneath where Craig had been hung was blackened too, though Kurt didn't remember the fire reaching quite that low. The entire memory was fuzzy and hard to grasp. He knelt and brushed his fingers over the sand, his hand jerking back when he felt how shockingly cold it was. Frowning, Kurt peered more closely at the charred ground, his stomach clenching as he noticed tendrils of frost built up between the pebbles. Slowly, he extended his hand so that his fingers hovered in the space beneath the swing set, and it was as if he'd stuck his hand into a freezer. His hairs stood on end, goosebumps traveling up over his wrist.

He yanked his hand back, blowing into his fist to warm it back up. The cold had seeped into his bones, feeling almost as if it was clinging to him beneath the skin, inside his nerves and blood vessels.

"Come on!"

Kurt twisted to look over his shoulder to where Eleanor was kneeling by the platforms, frustratedly beckoning to Zack. Zack was cowering away from her, refusing to move. Kurt swallowed and headed towards them, hoping Truman wouldn't notice that anything was amiss. Truman stayed where he was, however, still entertained by the challenge of getting Schism to react to being prodded in the ribs again and again.

(It wasn't working at all – Schism was completely ignoring him.)

"What's going on?" Kurt asked, crouching next to Eleanor to peer underneath the platform at Zack.

"He won't come out," Eleanor huffed, gesturing at Zack in exasperation. "I've been trying for ages."

Kurt squinted at Zack, who only pulled his legs closer to his chest and inched a little further away. "What's the matter?"

"I don't feel good," Zack said softly, his eyes wide and glassy in the shadow of the platform overhead.

"What's wrong?"

Zack shuddered, hiding his face. "I don't want to tell you."

"He said the same thing to me," Eleanor snapped. "It's Truman, Kurt, we— we can't let him keep—"

"I know," Kurt sighed, his fingertips still cold. "I know."

"What are we going to do?" Eleanor pressed.

Kurt chewed nervously on his cuticle, without an answer. Even though his transitions had slowed down since February, he felt more out of control and powerless than ever before. He had no idea what he or any part of him could do.

Glancing over his shoulder, Kurt's heart skipped a beat. Truman was still by the jungle gym, but he'd stopped bothering Schism and was now watching the two of them.

Kurt swallowed, turning back to Eleanor. "We'll figure something out," he said, and he was fairly certain that he'd never been less sure of anything else in his life.

Standing backstage in the school auditorium, Rachel's heart thudded in her chest as she forced herself to take deep, slow, calming breaths. Her hands were clammy and shaky with adrenaline. Finn squeezed her shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Other than feeling like my stomach's going to fall out, you mean?" Rachel replied, her voice tight and as unsteady as her hands. "Other than that, I'm fine."

Finn gave her what was probably intended to be a reassuring smile. "You got this," he promised. "I'll be in the stands, cheering you on."

Rachel wasn't able to suppress a minor chuckle at Finn's repetition of what she told him before every one of his football games.

"I'm going to go grab a seat." Finn planted a kiss on the top of her head and left, disappearing through the door to the hallway and leaving Rachel alone in the terrifying quiet.

You can do this. Make Barbra proud.

"Kurt Hummel," commanded a strict voice from out in the auditorium, making Rachel's heart skid to a stop.

Oh my God, she realized.

Kurt hadn't been taken off of the NYADA finalists' roster.

Steeling herself, Rachel took a deep breath and walked out onto the stage. Carmen Tibideaux was sitting regally in the center of the sea of empty chairs. Finn, Blaine, and Mr. Schue were clustered together toward the back, but it was hard to see them with Madame Tibideaux's harsh eyes coldly searching Rachel for any visible flaws before she'd even started.

"M-Madame Tibideaux," she started, making sure to project. "My name is Rachel Berry. I'm sorry, but Kurt's… unavailable."

Rachel could see a judgmental eyebrow rise from where she stood.

"If he's unavailable now, he will not be afforded a second chance at auditions," Madame Tibideaux responded evenly. "The Academy doesn't make allowances for students with cold feet."

Rachel felt a hot spike of anger stab through her stomach, and forced herself to suppress it, reminding herself that Madame Tibideaux didn't know the whole story – or even a piece of it. "He's in the hospital," she said as calmly as she could manage.

"Then he can re-apply in December," Madame Tibideaux replied. "I assume you are ready, Miss Berry?"

Rachel swallowed, her heart once again picking up the pace. "Y-Yes, ma'am."

"Then please continue."

A dull buzzing filled Kurt's ears as he sat in his usual spot on Dr. McManus' office couch, one leg folded up underneath him and the other jiggling against the floor. It felt as if he'd had five cups of coffee but no way to spend the energy jolt, so it was just sitting in his stomach like a coiled-up spring waiting to release. He felt caged, and he hated it more and more by the day.

He briefly wondered if this was how the alters felt, beating against the walls of his skull and screaming at him to be let out.

"You know, we have an elliptical in the common room, Kurt," McManus said, eyeing Kurt's restless leg with concern. "You could burn off some of that extra energy."

Kurt shrugged. "I tried already."

"Maybe another weekend at home, then," the doctor suggested. "It'd give you a chance to get out a little more. Patch things up with your dad."

Kurt nodded without saying anything.

"Promise me one thing, though."

"What?"

McManus smiled slightly. "Don't stay in the house while you're home," he said. "Go out. Do things with your family. See your friends."

Kurt swallowed, glancing at the floor. His leg wouldn't stop moving.

"Kurt, just because you're cooped up here most of the time doesn't mean you can't have a life before you get better," McManus insisted. "You have a big support network. Use it – not many people in your situation are that lucky."

"I know," Kurt said softly, not meeting McManus' eye.

"In the meantime, though, I'd like to try a slightly different strategy to get you closer to integration."

Kurt looked up again, grateful for the change of subject. "What strategy?"

"Have you ever tried keeping a journal?"

"You mean like…"

"With all the alters contributing, yes."

Kurt shifted in his seat – the leg he'd folded under him had fallen asleep. "My stepmom said I should try it a few months ago," he said. "Things were bad, though, so I guess it kind of fell off the table."

McManus stood and pulled a notebook down from his shelf, noticeably lacking a spiral binding (Kurt knew patients couldn't be trusted with any kind of wire, but the detail nearly made him roll his eyes anyway) and instead had a bound spine like a book. "Well, now that you're in an environment where this is the only thing you've got to worry about," McManus said, handing the notebook to Kurt. "Why don't we give it another shot?"

"I'm not allowed to have pens or pencils outside of art therapy," Kurt said.

"Already have that covered," McManus said, drawing an eight-pack of fine-tip Crayola markers out of a desk drawer.

"Seriously?"

McManus grinned. "Come on. Zack will love them, and you'll probably get a drawing or two out of it. You can put them on your wall."

Kurt laughed. "I don't think I want my own four-year-old doodles decorating my bedroom," he said, but tucked the notebook and markers under his arm.

"Try to get the alters to write in the journal as well. Some of them will be easier to convince than others, but just try and we'll see what you have in a couple days and go from there."

Kurt let out a heavy breath as he returned to the dorm room and sat cross-legged on his bed with the notebook in his lap. After a moment's indecision, he took the dark blue marker out of the Crayola pack and wrote KURT in the center of the notebook cover.

As the evening art therapy session drew to a close, Charlie made his rounds around the ward, checking to be sure that each resident had taken their medication. After going through the rigmarole of getting Scott's dosage of Clozapine down his throat (Scott hated taking his meds and it usually took more than one person and too much of Charlie's attention to coach him to swallow the pills), Charlie moved over to the card table where the usual group was playing Connect-Four.

"Evening, guys," he greeted them with the tray of pill cups in his hand as the other nurses brought around trays of food for dinner.

"Cocktails!" Dustin exclaimed, holding his hand out immediately for the cup containing his mood stabilizers.

Charlie distributed the cups, watching the men at the table like a hawk – he was on good terms with all four of them, but that didn't mean he trusted them entirely. He nudged Kurt, who seemed to have spaced out for a second. "Come on, Kurt, bottoms up," he said.

Kurt blinked, then grabbed his cup and tipped the antipsychotic and antidepressant into his mouth. He swallowed, then opened his mouth wide to allow Charlie to peer inside and make sure the pills weren't stashed underneath his tongue.

Charlie nodded, satisfied that the four of them were sufficiently dosed, and moved on to another patient.

Out of the corner of his eye as he was handing Nick his meds, Charlie noticed Kurt get up from the table and stride back into his room, shutting the door behind him. Charlie frowned, finishing up with Nick as quickly as he could before following.

He knocked on Kurt and Scott's door. "Kurt?"

The door opened and Kurt reappeared on his way back out to the common room. "What's up?"

"Just checking on you."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow. "…I went to the bathroom."

Charlie's nose twitched – Kurt's breath smelled like vomit. Fresh vomit.

"What?" Kurt pressed.

"Nothing," Charlie said, shaking his head. "Nothing, go ahead." He moved aside so that Kurt could go back to his table, then waited for Kurt to pass before ducking into the room himself. He opened the door to the bathroom (which also smelled like a just-emptied stomach). The toilet well was still hissing as it refilled.

Kurt was flushing his pills.

Charlie swallowed and left the room, heading straight for Dr. McManus' office.