The odd group reached the van, and the chain of three stepped inside. There was a click. One released himself and began to search the prisoner, not taking much care in how hard he patted or how roughly he shook. This man had tried to kill children. Children.

There wasn’t much unusual about what they found on him: a lighter, cigarettes, gum, coins, keys. Bullets. There was also a curled, stained, folded letter, and a torn photograph of a high school football team. Hands full, the officer poured the lot into a clear plastic bag and handed it back outside the van before locking himself back into the shackles and lowering himself to the bench. He tried not to look at the pathetic figure sat next to him. He didn’t want to lose sleep over this.
-
Will seemed to be running through water. Crossing the quad seemed to take until eternity. And in all this time the figures ahead of them never came into focus; he could not tell in Finn or Kurt was among them. His heart pounded as he realised only Kurt was unaccounted for; and only one stretcher had gone into that ambulance. How had he gotten separated from the rest? From Finn? Will knew how protective Finn had become ever since Kurt had transferred back to McKinley. People kept moving in the distance, running backwards and forwards from the vehicles. Getting closer it looked to him like they were all identical; all in uniform, all blank and unidentifiable. As they neared the end of the buildings for a brief second the entire scene was obscured. And then they plunged round the corner. And William’s heart jumped in his chest.

Because there was Finn, just ahead of them, watching something hidden within the first ambulance. But as they ran forward his head swivelled and he began to walk, heading towards the open door to the boy’s locker room, where police and paramedics swarmed like ants out of a nest. Mr Schue came to a halt, breathing hard. Carole came to his side, followed by a panting Burt. Their faces scanned the figures in front of them, and Will watched as Carole’s eyes locked on her son, wandering through the chaos like a veteran, wearing some kind of bulletproof vest, half draped over his stiff shoulders. He saw Finn pause, and then turn back the way he’d come, as if called.

And Carole tore from their sides and ran to him, calling his name, to where he was standing at the back of the ambulance. Burt trailed after, tears in his eyes, chest rising and falling; still looking. Carole buried herself into her son’s chest and Finn stood, arms around her, in shock. Burt’s eyes locked on his, but then broke to look on the figure in the ambulance. A boy lay there, half propped up by the bed, an oxygen mask being placed carefully over his nose and mouth. Seeing the man looking at him, the exhausted eyes rose, gazing back in puzzled familiarity. The paramedic next to him turned and placed a bloodied football jacket at the foot of the stretcher. But Burt had seen enough; this was not his son. Standing a foot behind his wife he looked Finn dead in the eyes, his voice bottomless and pleading.

“Where is he?”

Finn’s eyes didn’t change, they were dazed, but his head motioned slowly towards that back door, flicking just as a fresh wave of bodies began to emerge from inside. Then he lowered his head and buried his face in his mother’s hair.

Burt turned and began to walk, slowly. People moved slower before him, their movements exaggerated and theatrical. Each step rocked him to the core, to the bottom of his damaged heart. Three policemen came through the door as Burt walked, each gazing behind themselves into the light issuing from the open door. One was missing his vest. Then a man in a green uniform, a paramedic, slinging a red bag over his shoulder and dashing towards a second ambulance. Burt’s chest dropped another degree.

Then a green back, linked to green arms, pulling on the handles of another yellow gurney, head flung back in urgency, shouting some instruction. Burt halted altogether, wondering whether his life was about to end. Foam blocks came into view, cradling a head of dark hair which just curled into sight between Velcro fastenings. More straps, a blanket. Another policeman on the far side of the stretcher, holding a fluid bag aloft like a lantern.

And then an arm. A bare arm, capped in a white cuff, attached to more of a white shirt. And a brown head of hair. All facing away from him, bending and running alongside the figure on the stretcher, holding one white hand from under the blankets. But those shoes, those trousers. That form.

“Kurt…”

Burt gasped, the breath shuddering from him. His
son.

And Kurt heard his own name, blinking in the new darkness of the outside world. Glancing over his shoulder he kept jogging, compelled along by the hand which held his and by each fresh squeeze of pain.

“Kurt.”

Burt spoke up now, just staring at his son. And this time Kurt saw him and in the darkness their eyes met. His mouth hung, wordlessly; yet his feet still kept time with those running around him. But then they stopped, and reached the ambulance. And Kurt turned back to Blaine’s suffering face as his hand was once again drawn from that of the boy he loved. He was forced back, pushed away as figure after figure followed Blaine as he was lifted into the sterile blankness. And the doors were thrown shut.

Kurt stepped backwards and felt himself enveloped by his father’s arms; it felt alien and numb. The round shook as engines started and from behind them came another clash of slamming doors. The two vehicles began to move, and their red and blue lights drifted over and away from the remaining crowd. Reaching the edge of the field their two sirens suddenly exploded into the silence.

“My boy, my own boy…”

His dad shook with crying, weeping into Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt felt his own legs shuddering, and suddenly he was sitting on the cold, damp grass, curled into his father’s knees, rocking.

“Dad...dad...” He returned the words. “Oh God, dad…”
-
Puck slowly descended the steps to the quad, having passed the wreckage of the cafeteria. The female officer he’d confessed everything to walked a pace behind him, answering a stream of questions coming through her radio. Puck heard most of them; most of them were about him. In his head he calculated that it must have been about twenty minutes since he’d seen the window ledge explode underneath Finn. His ribs had begun to ache with pain, from the dive to the floor. His knuckles and forehead hurt too; but all the pains were blunt and dull, next to the searing image of his father’s feral face, clenched above that weapon, staring down on him as he crawled against the drums.

He’d told her everything he could think of, and was surprised by how easily it came. For the first few minutes she’d sat in silence, not filling his pauses or asking him questions. Then, with some kind of sudden realisation, she’d reached inside her jacket and pulled out a notepad and pencil, and had begun taking notes on everything he said, glancing up every few lines. And Puck was glad that she’d done that because, as easy as it had seemed, the weight of what he’d told her was now pressing down on his chest, suffocating him on release. He could not repeat the story again. Not tonight.

When he’d finished, when all he’d had to say had finally dried up in his mouth, she’d pressed his hand for a second, a look that he couldn’t read in her eyes, and then reached for a radio at her belt. Puck had sat there for a good ten minutes, listening as his story was played back time and again to distant strangers. It sounded odd in someone else’s voice, as the other officers moved around them. Like one of those tragic-drama stories that made the front pages of real life magazines; something he would have dismissed as tasteless and fake a few days ago. Hell, he’d not even really thought anything of it all himself until half an hour ago.

Puck reached the foot of the stairs now, and held open the door for the woman to pass through. Two other police officers followed behind her, shouldering huge guns. The sight pulled at something in Puck’s chest, and he felt a new nameless fear rise inside of him. Following through the door quickly he made his way back to the front of the group, where he could see only what was in front of him. He became aware of a mesh of noise: deep electrical bass hums, louder voices, single shouts, all sweeping down from the top of the second set of stairs ahead. Puck began to climb them, suddenly paradoxically scared at his own lack of emotion. What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he crying? Or running? Or even still angry? Why did he feel so much nothing?

Puck’s head almost reached the level of the top step when the sound of running feet behind him made him look around. Five figures dashed across the concrete, coming from the direction of the football field. Puck’s brow creased in confusion. It was Mr Schue, Finn, Finn’s mom, Kurt’s dad, and Kurt. Briefly his heart leapt within him at seeing that Kurt was ok, but something was obviously wrong. All five had long tear stains down their cheeks. Kurt, sprinting despite himself at the front of the group, looked as Puck had never seen him before. Finn, running behind him, struggled to keep up.

The woman and other officers had reached the same level as Puck now, pausing and also watching their progress. Kurt came to the bottom of the steps to their right and began to scale them, two at a time, stumbling and rising, falling to his hands and knees. Puck tried to call out to him, to ask him what was wrong, as Finn’s eyes told him that something was, but his voice stuck in his throat.

“Kurt! Stop!”

The older boy caught up with him now, grabbing him by the shoulders and trying to hold him back, but Kurt shrugged him off with strange ferocity and tried to keep climbing. Finn tried again and again, and finally, on reaching level with Puck and his own ghostly group, managed to wrestle Kurt firmly into his arms. Puck watched as Kurt’s arms flailed and hit out, pounding against Finn’s chest. But the bigger boy only pulled his struggling brother closer.

And suddenly Kurt’s arms hung, and he crumpled forwards, letting Finn take his entire weight. Their parents closed in around them, Carole and Burt wrapping their arms too around Kurt. Mr Schue stood awkwardly to one side for a moment, and then continued to climb the stairs, his chest heaving.

Puck followed his example, reaching the top of the stairs and walking out onto the plateau of the school entrance and parking lot, leaving behind the too raw emotions of his friends. But again Puck had to stop. The entire road was covered in lights and cars, crushed in next to each other, swarming with people. Near the gates, nearest him, one crowd was gathered, all staring in his direction.

Amongst them were the faces of all his friends, all those who had shared the experience with him. ‘But none of them know…’ said a voice inside him. And Puck couldn’t move. He felt cornered. What had he done to these people? To Kurt and Finn? His father. His family. His fault. He saw Lauren, pushing through the crowd to the front, to a line of police and tape. Her hand flew into the air, waving to him, beckoning him over. How close had everything he’d done come to almost killing her?

Then Puck’s heart almost stopped completely. Lauren’s other hand emerged from behind her back, pulling a small woman after it. The woman’s face was drawn and tired, with tears streaming down it and red and blue lights flashing over it. His mother. And she didn’t know either. And he’d have to tell her. Tell her about yet another disaster he’d caused. About all the people he’d hurt, about how selfish he’d been to want revenge, how cowardly he’d felt went faced with that gun…

Fear returned to fill the gap in Puck’s emotions. But it kept rising, overflowing, overwhelming. The woman’s hand came onto Puck’s arm again, gently pushing him forwards. He turned to look at her and saw only the dark shape of the school. He wanted to go back, back inside, and face his fate like a man. Between himself and his father no-one had dealt the final blow, no-one had won here. Puck’s entire body shuddered. The woman pushed gently again and another officer took hold of his other arm, walking him forwards towards the crowd and lights. He saw Mr Schue, who’d reached the crowd, call out something to all the others there, all their faces swivelling to his. But Puck, still moving forwards, could not make out what was said. Then Mr Schue kept walking, disappearing into the mass of bodies.

Puck reached the tape and it was lifted over his head. Lauren’s arms seized him and threw him towards his mother. Puck let her hug him again and again, reaching his arms around her small frame instinctively, all the time staring over her head at the mass of cops. How many of them knew? What were they going to do?

“Sorry, ma’am,” came a familiar voice at Puck’s elbow. It was that same officer. “But could you come with us for a moment. I think there are a number of things we need you both to help us with.”

Puck looked the uniformed woman in the face, and saw terrible seriousness behind her kind eyes. Puck’s mother looked at the woman and then up at him. Before she could ask any questions, Puck began to walk, and she followed, arms still linked around her boy’s waist.
-
Will’s breath was long gone by the time he’d reached the police tape, but he kept going. Yanking it over his head he dived forwards, he needed to find Emma. The kids closed around him instinctively.

“Sir! Sir? Mr Schue? Where’s Kurt? Where’s Finn? Are they ok?”

Will looked up at them all and realised he had to say something of what was impressed on his mind; what he had seen down on the football field and what was still playing out somewhere behind him, down those cold steps. He cleared his throat, purposefully still pressing into the crowd, anxious to reach the back.

“They’re fine.”

His voice was so small and stifled. He tried clearing his throat.

“They’re fine. They’re coming back; coming up now.”

He found himself staring Rachel in the eyes.

“But…”

He couldn’t hold her gaze. He looked at the ground.

“Blaine…Blaine got hurt…”

His mind found no other way of phrasing it. He felt the circle tighten around him with collective disbelief.

“But…but he’s ok, right?”

He didn’t know who was talking now. He had to keep moving.

“I don’t know. Sorry guys, I really don’t know. But I have to go…I’m sorry…”

Thrusting his hands out in front of himself he pushed through the last line of parents, feeling the last pairs of eyes fall from the back of his head. And Will could look up again, through the tears gathering in his eyes. Emma. Emma.

He found her moments later, sitting on that same wall with Figgins. He stopped before them, gathering his breath to speak. But Figgins opened his mouth first.

“William, what happened? Are you ok? The kids?”

“Kurt?” Whispered Emma.

“He’s fine; not hurt. He’s just coming up now.”

Will saw her eyes turn worriedly on him; he knew his voice gave away more of what he had to say.

“Have you still got your cell phone?”

She pulled in out into her hand and waved it once. Will looked at both of them.

“We need to call the Karofskys. Dave was in there too. He was hurt.”

Emma’s eyes widened, her hand rushing to her mouth. But then she nodded and stood up, pulling herself away to the side and beginning to dial, pulling a thick list of names from inside her bag.

As Will sank to the wall, Finn climbed over the last step of the courtyard, his brother, mom and stepdad next to him. Burt took hold of his son again as the four of them climbed under the tape. Kurt felt the eyes of the entire club, all over on his left hand side, on him as he walked. He wanted so badly to go and hug them all, to go and cry with them. But he had to go; had to. He had to follow Blaine. His legs ached to run again, to shorten the time between them. He heard Blaine’s fragile voice in his head:

‘Is it enough to say I love you?’

They passed quickly through the cars, Burt leading the way now, with Carole holding Finn and Kurt’s hands. Suddenly a door was open before Kurt, and he slid sideways into a seat. Someone bent and fastened his belt over him, like a toddler. He had no reaction. Blaine’s voice kept playing over and over in his head. Then they were moving, Finn next to him, his father’s badly balding head in front. Lights flashed past. Kurt’s finger’s plucked at the ring of dark hardness on the front of his T-shirt and the tackiness of the dried blood stayed on his fingers.

'Is it enough to say I love you?'

Kurt just wished he’d said it one more time.