Part One.

I slip unnoticed through the crowd, and it's impossible to hear even a single breath from my lips with the way the crowd is roaring and cheering for whichever of the two teams on the field they prefer. I can feel the thrum of the bass over the speakers of the stadium, and all I want to do is get out of here.

I'm shimmying between bodies, and thankfully, the crowd seems to dissipate the closer I get to the exit. I keep envisioning my car in the parking lot, sitting there patiently, waiting for me. It beckons to me, saying, "Here, here! I'm your escape, hurry up and come to me! Let's get away!"

I shouldn't have even come in the first place, I think as I shove past some screaming fan painted the colors of one of the football teams. I only came to support a friend, but halftime is over, and now so is their part in this game.

College football is so much messier than high school football. There are more players, more fans, more excitement, more food, more noise, and more movement. It's all a big, loud, electric blur, and not the good kind, the sort you feel while on a roller coaster. This lasts longer, and the way it is, it's closer to a form of torture to anyone who isn't part of the noise. Anyone like me, who doesn't care much about football and only cares about his friend in the university's marching band as part of the half-time show.

Sighing with relief, I finally break out of the last of the crowd and am pacing down the pavement of the parking lot. I could kiss the filthy ground, I'm so glad to be out of there. I had to endure the entire first half, and that was enough for me. Now I'm exhausted and ready to just be back in my safe, cozy dorm room.

I'm halfway to my park in the long stretch of parking lot when I hear the clatter of racing footsteps. I halt mid-step and pivot on my back leg to find one of the football players jogging away, headed down the row of cars one over from mine. Is he headed one of the cars? – But don't football players normally get bussed to the stadium? And how come this guy is leaving? – Should still be in the game? The second half only just started…

"Hey!" I call out, and start walking toward the line of cars separating us. "Are you all right?"

I probably shouldn't bother him – it's none of my business, really – but every time I see something out of place, I feel the need to help if I can. It's in my nature to look out for others, because no one ever looked out for me while I was in middle school and high school, and I don't want to be one of those people who stand by and watch from the sidelines when I could be out there, aiding someone who really needs it.

The footballer freezes in place, his spiked shoes squeaking momentarily on the blacktop. He blinks at me, sweat and dirt streaking his face, his uniform dirtied with grass and mud stains.

"Uh, no, actually. Could you give me a ride? I don't have money on me for a taxi, but I need to get to the hospital fast!" he guy shouts to me as he comes walking toward me. He looks desperate.

"Um, sure, I suppose. But you don't look injured, and they normally carry injured athletes out in a stretcher and load them onto an ambulance, don't they?" I say slowly, my mind trying to wrap around this bizarre situation.

"Yeah, yeah, but I'm not hurt, see? It's – it's my sister. I checked my phone during half time and found five missed calls and about ten texts from my dad. So, please? I need to go see my sister," the football player says in a rush, and he looks like he's on the brink of tears.

I swallow hard to stop my own eyes from tearing up. I can just barely imagine how he must feel. And I bet if e couldn't find a ride of some sort, he had been prepared to run the full – what, nine, maybe eleven, blocks? – to the hospital. "O-oh, yes, of course. Come on; my car is right over there," I say, moving and pointing and watching as the smallest fraction of relief smoothes out his brows.

"Oh, God, thank you. Thank you do much," he replies, voice cracking slightly, and we quickly get into my car and buckle up onto to pull out straight away.

He smells like how he looks; sweaty, grassy, dirty. But the sweat is a clean, watery scent, and I used to cut the grass for my dad all the time, so the grass and mud thing doesn't bother me very much. I glance over at him every so often, and watch as he tugs off his shoulder pads and jersey and is left in a soaked white t-shirt. He's breathing a little heavy, and by the way his big hands are fumbling together and apart, I assume that he must be absolutely terrified for his sister.

"What's your name?" I ask softly, the silence in the car a little unbearable, especially when everything is frozen at a red light. "I see that it says 'Karofsky' on your jersey, but what's your first name?"

"David. Or, well, Dave. Everyone calls me Dave. Except my sister; she calls me Davey. I just. I'm so worried about her. She has never been very healthy, you know? She was one of those premature babies that always got sick and would sometimes go to the hospital, even as she grew older and stronger. She's fourteen, now, and in high school. She has friends, everyone seems to like her, and she's super nice, and just –" Dave rambles, and his nerves must be shot.

I reach over and gently touch his left hand where it's raised halfway in the air from his panicky gesturing. "Hey, it's okay. We're on our way to see her, and she'll be fine. You need to take a few deep breaths and calm your heart rate; I can fele your pulse in your fingertips."

"Uhg. You're right. Sorry," he mumbles, and grows quiet, shrinking in on himself, leaning back against his seat with a rather audible shlump. "I don't even know you, and here I am freaking out about it to you." He sighs heavily, and I feel so bad for him. "I just… I get scared, you know? She could die any one of these times that she goes in, and this time sounded especially bad. So what am I supposed to think?"

"Exactly what you are thinking," I answer. "It's normal. Don't beat yourself up about it. And if you like, I'll go into the hospital with you. I may be a stranger, but I think you could use the support," I tell him, and I'm being completely genuine. I want him to know that I'm willing to help him, and be there for him. Who knows? We could become friends over this. It would certainly be a nice change for me, since I haven't made any new friends at this college yet. The only friend I have is someone from my high school, Rachel, a band geek, the same one I was here for today. I was supposed to meet up with her after the game, but I might have to call her and cancel.

"You'd do that? I mean, I don't want to put you out if you had someplace to be –" he starts, but I shake my head and smile minutely as I keep my eyes on the road.

"I'd be happy to. It will put me at ease to know that you're all right, and so is your sister. So I insist."

"Oh, okay. Wow. Thanks," Dave replies, and I think he's the sort of person who doesn't have people do sincerely kind things for him very often. "Um… what's your name?"

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't say it, but I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel," I tell him, and flash him a small smile before I pull into the hospital parking lot and find the closest space I can to the front doors.

He offers me a charming smile in return. "Well, thanks, Kurt. Now let's get in there and see about my sister before I have a heart attack and wind up on the other side of the double-doors, huh?"

It's meant to be a joke, but neither of us can laugh as the sick, chemical smell floods around us the second we step into the building. Dave checks in with the receptionist and sends us up a level. Dave runs to meet up with his father in a waiting room.

I awkwardly stand off to the side and politely smile. Dave holds his football helmet and pads under one arm as he speaks frantically with his father. His father looks very solemn under his baggy eyes and small beard-lined mouth. He spies me over his son's shoulder and gestures my way. Dave glances back, as if he had momentarily forgotten about me.

Dave switches between calling me over and coming to get me for a second, and then decides that he might as well bring his father to me. "Dad, um. This is Kurt. He was in the parking lot when I left the game, and he gave me a ride."

"I am very thankful to you, young man," Mr. Karofsky says, and he takes one of my hands in his, and he looks much older than I know he must be – which is roughly 50, like my own father – and so very, very sad. "This is a difficult time for our family. My wife recently passed away, and our little Lilah is always so close to death's door herself. Thank you for understanding, and for helping my son be here."

"It was no problem," I whisper. I never thought I would be dragged into another person's life so suddenly and at such an odd point in my own life, but this is happening, and I can't help but feel like I'm supposed to be here today. "I never heard of a football player leaving a game and running, panicked, into the parking lot before, so I thought I would ask what was wrong. And… well, I'm glad that I did."

Mr. Karofsky smiles at me, clearly grateful. He turns back to his son, and his smile falls. "Speaking of which, is your coach going to hold this against you?"

Dave winces. "Sort of. He says that I'm one of his best linebackers, so he doesn't want me to run out on every game. I told him that I wouldn't, and that if it started happening too much, I would do him a favor and quit without taking the team down with me. Still, Dad, I don't know if I want to go back. It helped be vent for a while, but now it just makes me exhausted."

"But David, you can't throw it away like that; your sister is very important, but you're only at that university because of your football scholarship."

"Yeah, Dad, I know that, but… I need to be here for Lilah. She's all we have left."

I pretend that I'm not listening, even though I'm right here. I don't need to know about this part. And I don't want to, since it's beginning to remind me of my step-brother, Finn, and how he wasn't good enough of a quarterback to get a scholarship. And this kid a good player, but he's wasting it away because he's so worried about his family. And the fact that he lost his mother… it tugs on my heart more than it should because I lost my mom when I was about seven.

"I'm sorry for intruding," I say suddenly, and both of the Karofsky men look at me oddly. "I should really go."

"No," Dave says, catching my shoulder as I turn to walk away. He quickly drops his hand with a glance toward his father and shoves his hands into the pockets of his football shorts. "I mean… you said you'd stay as support. And I don't have any other friends here, so I could use one. So, um. Stay? Just for a little bit longer, if you can."

I purse my lips and nod dumbly. "A-all right," I murmur, and Dave shows me that soft, relieved expression again, and I have to stay. His father thanks me again for being so supportive, and soon, a nurse comes out.

"She's stable. Would one of you like to visit with her? She might not wake just yet, but I'm sure you're very worried," the woman says, and Mr. Karofsky nods in Dave's direction.

"Go on, son. I know you're dying to," he says encouragingly. Dave nods and rushes off, into the ward. To me, the middle-aged man turns and sends a gentle smile. "Did you only meet David today?"

"Yes," I answer quietly. "I haven't known him until now. But I think he's someone I would like to get to know. He seems like a good guy."

"He has his rough edges like most teenage boys, but you're right about that. He's a good boy at heart, and his sister brings out the best in him. He went through a bullying phase, however. Back in when he was still in high school. He got mixed up with some rude boys and started acting unlike himself. But I think he's straightened out. He has a temper, but it's nothing to be afraid of," he informs me as he moves to sit down.

I join him, looking questioningly at the man's face. "Why are you telling me this? I'm a stranger."

"Maybe. But maybe you're just the sort of friend he needs right now. You seem like a smart, good-natured boy; and I don't believe in coincidences. I think God sent you to David to be someone to help him through all this," Mr. Karofsky says, and when I look at him, his face is dead serious. "So, as a parent, I'm asking you: could you take him for coffee once this is over? Just to calm his nerves a little, and get to know him better."

"Sir, this is an awful lot to ask of a stranger, and I really don't believe in God or fate or–" I venture cautiously.

"I'm well aware of how much I'm asking, and I know not everyone is a believer," he says tiredly, sinking into his chair. "But you're the first kid I've met in a long while who seems to give a damn about other people and their feelings. You didn't have to ask my son what was wrong. You could have gone to your car and left. Or you could have denied him a ride since he is a stranger. Except you didn't. And you would be the only friend David will have who isn't a football player, and trust me when I say most of those boys are rather rough, and it's not a good influence for David, since he's generally a gentle boy."

"I understand," I console softly. "So I'll do it. But don't you think he should get a change of clothes before he gets a coffee?" I say, trying to joke a little.

It works; the older man laughs, nodding. "Oh, you're right about that. I thought of it, too, during the rush of bringing my daughter here. That's what the gym bag there is for," he replies, pointing down at the bag I hadn't noticed was under the seat next to him. "He can change and wash up in the bathroom, and then you two can leave and get his mind off of all of this. I'll pay for any gas you use today."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," I say hurriedly. "I-I mean, it's no big deal. But it would be nice if you gave him some money for the coffee."

"Right, right; of course," Mr. Karofsky chuckles, but he sounds so worn-out that I almost want to stop talking to him. But there's one thing I need to know.

"Mr. Karofsky… if you don't mind my asking, what is wrong with your daughter?" I ask very quietly.

His face grows long and woeful. "She's always been ill. She would get colds and the flu often, and her organs are rather slow on the job most of the time. And as it happens, this time, it's her liver. It's giving out on her, all because it's smaller than average size for someone her size and age. She might need a transplant, and who knows if she can handle that."

"Oh my," I whisper. I peer longingly at the doors for a moment, my heart clenching in my chest. "If she – if she dies, what do you suppose will become of Dave?"

"I don't like to think about it, because I honestly don't know," Mr. Karofsky remarks forlornly. "He could lash out or shut himself in. I don't know what he would do, and that's what worries me."

0o0o0

Dave is extremely shaky when he comes out of the ward. He soundlessly takes the gym bag his father offers him, and after a while in the bathroom, he comes out looking much more presentable in jeans and a polo than he had before, but I don't miss his red, puffy eyes. He must have spent a quarter of his time just trying to stop crying and keep his face looking normal.

"David? Why don't you go with Kurt for a while? I'll stay here with your sister," Mr. Karofsky suggests tenderly, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Yeah, sure. Okay," Dave murmurs, and his father stuffs some money into Dave's hand. "She talked, you know."

His father goes still. "She did? What did she say?"

"She was weak, but she told me not to worry. She said that whatever happens, it will be because it was meant to happen. She said that she'll be okay if she can't get a donor in time or if we can't pay for it because at least she'll go to where Mom is." He makes a choking sound before clearing his throat. "I told her that it won't come to that, and that we love her and need her to fight. She needs to try to stay as long as possible. She's too young to think about stuff like that. But she just smiled and fell asleep again."

Mr. Karofsky instantly wraps his arms around his son and pats him on the back a few times. Then he releases him and forces a smile. "Go get some coffee; you look like you could use some. But get the good stuff, not the coffee in the machines here. All right?"

"Yeah," Dave mumbles, and he sniffles, rubbing his eyes, and turns to me. "Let's go."

I nod curtly and start pacing down the hall, toward the elevator. Once the doors close and I select the ground floor, Dave's demeanor changes. He hardens and puts on a mask. It startles me, because up until this point, I had only known him to be… well, vulnerable. And now all I can think is: his father was right.

"Kurt, do you have any siblings?"

I clear my throat and watch him carefully. He isn't looking at me; he's looking directly ahead, at the elevator doors.

There's a chime and suddenly they're open, and we're steeping out, conversion flowing as steadily as our footfalls. "Yes. Well, sort of. I have a step-brother."

"Did you grow up with him?" Dave asks, his tone ever flat.

I don't like this. "Mostly. Our parents married when we were in seventh grade, so he's been my brother for about six years, give or take a few months." I swallow. "I love him as if he were my blood-brother, though. He's always there for me. He makes mistakes often, but he always fixes them again. And he cares about me."

"So if he ever got sick, or if he were dying, or if you were in any position like mine, you would do whatever you could to save him and make him well, wouldn't you?" Dave challenges, and he's taking long strides out in the cloudy sunlight, and it unnerves me to see him like this, because I don't know him yet, and thus, don't know what he's capable of. His father dud say this Dave was once a bully… what if I answer incorrectly and he gets violent? People are unstable when they're grieving.

"I would," I say softly. We reach my car and I unlock it hastily with the remote on my keys. Dave waits for me to get in first, then follows suit. He doesn't buckle up straight away, not even when I start the engine. So I wait.

He nods firmly. "Yeah, I thought so. Good; that's… good," he mutters, and soon, he's buckling himself in and I'm driving toward a Starbucks.

"Dave… please don't tell me you're planning something drastic for your little sister's sake," I pose with a hiss.

"That's none of your business, even if I am," he retorts almost coldly.

Anger suddenly flares up in my gut. I grit my teeth and force myself to focus – I can't whip my head to the side to glare at him; I have driving to do, and this is a city, above all – but my words aren't help back, and neither is my tone. "Are you stupid? It became my business when you got into my car in the stadium parking lot! I'm in this with you, now, whether you like it or not. And your father asked me to be your friend through all of this, to keep you level-headed, and goddammit if I'm not going to keep my word!"

I can feel his gaze on my profile, intense and white-hot. I feel the flush of adrenaline run through me, and I screech to a stop when I park the car in front of the Starbucks.

"So my dad put you up to this, then? Is that it?" he growls, slamming my car door. I would yell at him for being rough with my baby, but I ignore it and choose to focus on the larger issue here.

"If you must know, he asked me to, and I accepted, because I feel bad for you. If it were me in your shoes, I would want someone by my side to help guide me and keep me upright since my weary father can't do everything for me. Don't think that taking this matter into your own hands will make everything peachy-keen again; it will only make things worse!"

"Would it?" Dave throws back at me, and we aren't even moving toward the coffee shop. We're just standing outside in the chill of autumn on either side of the front hood, yelling at one another. I don't want to be yelling, but it seems the only way to hold Dave's attention. And he seems as stubborn as an ox, just like my own father. "Because to me, it seems a lot like being helpful if I get my hands on the donor list and find a way to bump my sister's case up to the top, since it's plenty urgent. She's just a little girl. Some of the other people who need their livers fixed are old and have lived their life. But my sister, Lilah? She's fourteen. She still have her whole life ahead of her! And I'll be damned if I let God take that away from her!"

I reel back, shell-shocked by his speech. He's breathing heavily, face pink, and soon, he collapsing onto the hood on my car, his face buried in his hands, his elbows pressing into the metal.

"Dave…" I say as warmly as possible as I make my way around the front of the car to place my hand on his back, over his denim jacket. "You have find a little more hope than that. I know things look grim – it did when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and died not a year later – but your sister is different. She's lived this long, which means she's always combating the illnesses thrust upon her. So this time, you need to trust her and the doctors and be patient, like your father."

He slowly lifts his head and looks up at me, his eyes pink and hazel and glazed with tears and kind of beautiful. My heart thuds a bit louder than usual and I retract my hand from rubbing his back. I don't want to freak him out; I'm trying to be comforting, not flirtatious. So I look away and clear my throat.

"Okay?"

"…Yeah. Okay," he mumbles, and soon he's wiping his tears and shoving his hands into his pant pockets. "Let's get some coffee. I could go for some now."

We head inside and after we get our orders and sit down, we start talking about normal things. He mentions sports and his team and games, and I listen. I talk about my best friend Rachel and band and choir and drama club, and he listens. We find that we can agree on most things: foods, music, movies. But we disagree on a lot of other things, like drinks and TV shows and which albums are better for the bands we said we both liked. But as we sit here and talk for a good hour and a half straight, even after our coffee is gone and we're practically loitering with how long we're staying at our tiny table, I realize something: he reminds me of some of the guys I knew in high school. Some of the guys who were in choir who I was somewhat friends with, and that's an oddly placed comfort to me.

"So you were at the game today because of Rachel?" It amuses him for some reason. "You didn't even watch the game or cared who won?"

"Nah," I reply, shrugging. "I only cared about supporting her. She's the lead flautist. She even had a short solo in the number they played at half-time. But her real talent lies in singing. I wish they would have let her sing at half-time instead, but I think the woman in charge is jealous of her, and that's why she never lets Rachel sing. 'She's just a band member,' she told me once when I asked her about it. 'She's meant to play, not to sing.'"

"Didn't that piss you off?" Dave asks, frowning.

"Of course it did! And I protested it and everything, and even spoke to higher authorities about it, but there was nothing they can do. She's the director of the half-time shows for all the home games, and what she says, goes," I sigh. I stand up and gesture out the window. "Anyway, I think we should head back. Maybe something happened."

"No, my dad would have texted or called if anything had," Dave replies lowly. He holds up his phone. "And I would know if he had. I've been holding this since we sat down."

Poor guy, I think. He's a mess over this ordeal. But I can't say I blame him; if Finn were sick like this, I would be even more paranoid. Dave actually is holding together pretty well.

"But you're right, Kurt; we really should get going. That barista over there keeps glaring at us. I think he wants us to get the Hell out of his coffee shop," Dave says with a hint of humor, a smile barely reaching his lips.

I offer a short laugh and gather up my (rather fashionable) coat. "Yes, I believe I saw that. But where will we go? Back to the hospital after all?"

"I just want to go home. I'm tired. But you can drive me back to the hospital anyway, 'cause I should be going home with my dad once he's ready. Thanks for everything, though, Kurt. And, uh, before I forget… can I have your cell number?"

"Yeah, of course!" I exclaim, nearly forgetting about that tidbit myself. "Here, let's swap. You know how to work an iPhone, right?"

"Yeah, my dad has one. Sorry, but mine's just a little Samsung with a sliding keyboard. But it's simple enough."

We program our numbers into each other's phones in seconds, and then hand them back with a smile. But I can't help but notice a name near where mine shows up in his contacts list… a name with a block symbol beside it.

"Um, Dave? I don't mean to pry – it's just something I noticed off-hand – but you have someone blocked on here? Why?" Because I never block anyone. I never even have a reason to. No numbers that contact me are anyone but my friends, people I like and would never ignore, and especially not on purpose.

Dave's face falls from a smile to what I can only relate to the expression one makes when one of their secrets is discovered in the worst imaginable way. "Oh. Um. It's no one, just a friend of mine that wouldn't stop bugging me, so I ditched him, but he still tried to call me, so I blocked him. It's no big deal, you know? It happens," he says in a suspicious rush, snatching back his phone. "Uh, anyway. Let's get going, yeah?"

"Yeah," I agree slowly. I drop the subject and put on the radio in the car to drown out the sound of our awkward silence. When we part at the hospital, Dave hurries into the building and doesn't even acknowledge the brief wave I send his way.

-0-