The lights flashing red and blue momentarily blinded Burt as he jumped out of his car, leaving it haphazardly parked on the shoulder of the road and running toward the cluster of ambulances and police cars. He could see a red pickup truck with its front bent inwards and its windshield smashed, and on the bank sloping down from the road, an enormous twisted piece of metal covered in broken glass that he barely recognized as his wife's minivan.

An officer caught him by the shoulder and stopped him before he could run to the wrecked car. "Sir! I'm going to ask you to step back," she ordered, her hand pressing against his hollow chest.

"N-no, my wife's in there!" he stammered, and he could barely hear his own voice over the blood pounding in his ears and head and fingers. "M-my son— please—"

Burt shoved the officer's arm away and ran to the wreckage, his bad knee be damned. "Linda!" he called, his boots skidding on the gravel bank. His hands scrabbled at the door (or what was left of it) and pulled it back from its bent frame, the hinges screaming as it fell back against the side of the car.

"Sir!" the officers were shouting behind him. "Sir! Step away from the vehicle!"

Burt couldn't breathe. The van was tilted and the only reason Linda hadn't fallen into the passenger seat was because she was held in place by her seat belt, which hadn't done much for her. Her brown curly hair was stringy and thick with blood, and her face barely recognizable. Her torso was bent at an odd angle, her shoulder ripped open by a jagged scrap of metal.

His eyes finally found the passenger seat, and his heart screeched to a halt when he realized it was empty.

He couldn't think, couldn't move.

A pair of hands suddenly grabbed him from behind, yanking him back up toward the road. He pushed the officer away. "Where's my son?" he demanded. "Where is he?"

"Sir, please calm down—"

"Where is he?!"

"Who?"

"Kurt! My son!" Burt's hands were shaking, clenched into fists.

The officer frowned, glancing momentarily between Burt and the crumpled minivan. "Sir… there was no one else in the vehicle."

Burt jolted awake, sucking in a gulp of air too cold for his lungs. Breathing hard, he lay where he was, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room and trying to shake the nightmare from his head. The alarm clock on the bedside table glowed green, casting the room in an eerie not-quite-real light that made Burt queasy (which was strange, since he'd always stayed in this hotel when he was in Washington and it had never made him feel like this before).

It was 4:26, and he wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight.

Throwing back the covers, Burt pulled himself out of bed and went over to the window, pushing the curtains aside and looking out at the city sprawled below. It wasn't quite dawn but he could see the faint outline of a few clouds against a slightly lightened sky. The shadow of the Washington Monument stood in the distance.

Burt rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to rid himself of the images that hadn't yet faded from the backs of his eyelids. Logically, he knew that it had only been a dream. Kurt had never gone missing, and Burt had never even been to the crash site himself.

But he'd still had to identify Linda's body, and he'd picked up Kurt from the police station at five in the morning. The two of them had slept on the couch together for the rest of that day, and Kurt hadn't spoken a word for almost a week.

Leaning forward, Burt rested his forehead against the window, letting the glass cool him down as he watched the early-morning traffic. He just wanted to be at home.

Kurt's stomach hadn't stopped churning since Dr. McManus had confronted him about rejecting his medication, and the twisting feeling in his gut only made him feel more restless than usual. It was nearly impossible to sit still, and no matter what Kurt did to occupy himself, he always got bored of it in only a few minutes.

In a desperation produced by the deadly combination of severe boredom and equally severe anxiety, Kurt bailed out of art therapy early and asked Charlie for his iPod. He hadn't listened to music in what felt like (and probably was) months. Maybe all he needed was a little auditory stimulation.

Since the nurses wouldn't allow him to use the iPod in his bedroom, Kurt had to lie down on the couch out in the open while the rest of the ward residents continued to participate in the art therapy class on the other side of the room. Letting his feet dangle over the arm of the couch, Kurt stuck his headphones in his ears and draped his forearm over his eyes to block out the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

He probably should have been using the time to write in his journal, but he'd already tried today and he couldn't keep still long enough to produce more than a few words. It wasn't worth it.

Even with the music blaring in his ears, it was still too quiet.

Kurt had told Dr. McManus the truth – he didn't know who had been rejecting the meds. But he couldn't help constantly feeling as if Truman was sneaking up behind him, and Kurt had no idea how to defend himself.

It wasn't the first time it had struck Kurt just how alone he was.

"Hey, Kurt! Kurt!"

Kurt blinked at the ceiling, lifting his head and tugging one earbud out. Dustin was waving at him as the other residents cleaned up after the art therapy class. Robin and Bruce were setting up the Connect Four board. Again.

"Hey, Kurt, you joining in on this round?" Dustin asked.

A spike of irritation stabbed upwards from Kurt's stomach into his throat. "Don't you ever get sick of playing Connect Four?"

Dustin frowned. "Uh, no?"

"Everyone's got a routine," Robin chimed in.

"It's boring," Kurt said, unable to keep his frustration in check as he let his head fall back against the couch cushion.

"Well, if you don't want to play, you don't have to," Dustin snapped, plopping into his chair at the table with a huff.

"Okay, then." Kurt placed the earbud back in his ear and shut his eyes.

Apparently, though, Dustin wasn't finished, and he twisted around in the chair to glare at Kurt a second time, earning awkwardly confused glances from Robin and Bruce.

"You know, you're really stuck up."

Kurt sat up, pulling his headphones off entirely. "Excuse me?"

"Every day, you go around acting like you're not crazy, like you don't belong here—"

"What are you talking about?" Kurt demanded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the orderlies standing up and edging closer.

"Newsflash, Kurt!" Dustin spat, throwing up his hands in an overdramatized gesture. "You're crazy!"

"Stop it," Kurt said, his lungs shrinking beneath his ribs.

"You're not better than us," Dustin continued. "You're a drooling, medicated, fucking mental patient."

"Stop it!" Kurt barked, jumping to his feet.

"In fact, you've spent more time in solitary than any of us!"

"That wasn't me!" Kurt hissed, his voice shaking and his fists clenched.

Dustin rolled his eyes with a scoff. "Yeah, like that makes you sound sane and stable."

Something clicked in Kurt's head, and he lurched forward, sensing his muscles curl into attack mode.

(He didn't want to acknowledge how attack felt foreign and familiar at the same time.)

Before he could punch Dustin in the jaw, an orderly seized Kurt from behind and Charlie appeared between them, bracing a hand against Kurt's chest. "Cool it, Kurt," he said firmly.

Kurt jerked against the orderly's iron hold. "Get off me!"

"Calm down and I will," the orderly replied evenly.

"He started it!" Kurt spat in Dustin's direction.

"I don't care," Charlie countered. "If you don't calm down, I'm taking you to solitary."

That made Kurt's blood run cold, but he gritted his teeth and forced his shoulders to relax. It was suddenly difficult to pull air into his lungs.

"Okay," Charlie said as the orderly released Kurt. "Both of you have a warning." He glanced pointedly at Dustin before picking up Kurt's iPod from the couch. "This is going back to the nurses' station, and I don't want any more funny business."

"Yes, sir," Dustin drawled tightly.

Kurt swallowed, the tendons in his neck rigid.

"Come on, Kurt," Charlie spoke in an undertone so that only Kurt could hear him. "You're going home this weekend. Try to keep it together until then."

Kurt didn't want to give Charlie the satisfaction of a response, so he turned on his heel and went to his room, slamming the door behind him.

It was a bad idea.

Kurt abruptly felt compressed. It was hard to move, like the air was as thick as molasses. He leaned back against the door, hoping it would feel more solid than the walls.

He was suffocating.

Help me, he thought, not having the faintest idea who the prayer was addressed to. There were no voices in his head besides his own, and the silence was terrifying.

Why aren't you answering me?!

Minutes passed as Kurt tried to concentrate on breathing and not completely falling apart where he stood. Even with the lights on the bedroom was darker than the common room, and it was nerve-wracking.

The shoebox containing the stack of letters glared at him from where it sat untouched on top of his tiny bureau, daring him for the millionth time to open it.

I'm not crazy, he thought. Screw it.

He seized the box and sat on the bed with it in his lap. His pulse pounded his eardrums as he lifted the lid, hesitating to reach inside. His stomach clenched.

Blaine's letter was on top, but he pushed it to the side, fighting a rock in his throat. He wasn't ready for that one quite yet. Instead, he picked up Brittany's first, ripping the envelope open and unfolding the piece of notepaper inside.

Hi, Kurt. I just wanted to say that I love you a lot and I can't wait
until you come back. Santana explained everything to me. I know
you're not on a quest, but I still believe in you. If you want,
I can ask Santana to beat up the other people in your head.

Love, Brittany.

Kurt smiled, the rock in his throat growing bigger. Brittany was… well, Brittany, and it was comforting. He sat back against the wall behind his bed and picked up the envelope from Santana.

Instead of a flowery speech involving promises of faith, Santana's letter was short and to the point.

If you don't get better soon, I'm going to break down
the door to the hospital and kick your ass back into one piece.
Brittany's not going to be happy again until you are.

Kurt couldn't repress a chuckle, quickly followed by a sniff and he had to hastily wipe his eyes before the paper was blotted. Setting Santana's letter on top of Brittany's, Kurt took a deep breath and drew Puck's envelope from the box.

The message Puck had written was even shorter than Santana's.

Hey, Kurt. We all miss you, dude.

Well, brevity had always been Puck's strong suit.

Rachel's letter consisted of a full three double-sided pages crammed with get-well wishes and school gossip, peppered with I-love-yous and I-miss-yous. Kurt wouldn't have been surprised if she'd written three drafts of it. His attention was jumping from place to place, though, and he was pretty sure that he'd ended up skipping through at least half of it. Oh, well. He'd come back to it later.

After reading through get-well notes from Artie, Tina, and Mercedes, Kurt let out a heavy exhale and sat back. Only Blaine's envelope remained, lying inconspicuously at the bottom of the shoebox.

His pulse thudding from his chest all the way into his fingertips, Kurt picked up the letter and tore it open, unfolding the single piece of paper inside. The note wasn't nearly as long as he'd been expecting, but then again, Kurt wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to begin with. The words on the page blurred, and Kurt had to wipe his eyes again before he tried to read.

So, this is the twelfth time I've tried to write this, and I'm
still not sure what to say… Well, I have a lot to say. But
I'm pretty sure you know what most of it is, so I'll try to keep this short.

The paper shook in Kurt's fingers, making it more difficult to make out. Kurt held it tightly with both hands, attempting to keep it steady.

I want you to get better, Kurt. I miss you – not just us.
I mean, I miss us too, but I really, really miss seeing you happy.

Come to think of it, I'm not even sure if you were happy. That scares me.

Kurt's throat constricted, making him momentarily gasp for air.

Anyways. I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you,
so I'm just going to say outright that I'm not expecting you
to take me back. I know you don't want me near you right
now, and I understand that. I'll keep my distance, I promise.

But I'm here for you all the same, Kurt.
I'll be anything you need and nothing more.