Two-fifty. Three. Three-ten. Three-twenty.

"This isn't like him; he's never late. Are you sure he knew we were meeting?"

"Absolutely, we talked about it this morning. He ain't answering his phone, either." A pause. "Have you seen him today?"

"At lunchtime, yes."

Will Schuester pulled into the teacher's lot at McKinley just before the bell for first lunch. He'd taken the morning off to go to the doctor with his glowingly pregnant wife, who was, he admitted, just a little crazier than usual. Hormones, he laughed to himself, shaking his head. She had eaten an entire pie for breakfast before the appointment.

Life was good - perfect blue fall sky, a lovely wife and baby-to-be, and work he loved with a passion. These kids, they were really beginning to understand what music could do for them. Look at Kurt, for example, back here by the bleachers with other members of the football team. Maybe he was teaching them a new dance routine, something a little less…out there. "Good job, Kurt! Keep it up!" Will threw a smile and a thumbs up at them as he passed.

"Was he smiling?"

"What? No…I don't know. I wasn't really…I didn't notice."

"Well, think. How did he look?"

"Why? What difference could that possibly that make?"

"It makes all the difference in the world, Schuester. Do you know what happens to Kurt nearly every morning? Those … those jocks throw my son into the dumpster. They've been doing it since he was in middle school."

"You're kidding. There's no way…I mean, I know kids can be cruel, but…I see them every day! These are good kids."

"I'm not kidding, Schuester; I'm serious as a fucking heart attack. If something has happened to my boy, there will be hell to pay and I'll start with you."

"Yeah, keep it up, Hummel," Jacobs laughed.

Kurt knew Shue wouldn't stop - he never did - so he kept quiet and weighed the options. No dumpster nearby, no slushies in hand. That left patriotic wedgies, which is what he was hoping for. The other option was … well, it didn't happen often, but every few months one of the jocks would get it in his head that the only way to prove his masculinity was to play a round of smear the queer. Those were the days when he made sure to stay in his basement hideaway once he was home. It was bad enough his dad knew about the dumpster diving; Kurt couldn't imagine the hurt it would cause him to know the full extent of what happened to his son.

"Can you even get it up? Do you get hard in the locker room with us?"

Two of the players grabbed Kurt's arms, and Jacobs' fist landed hard in his gut. No wedgie, then, thought Kurt. He almost laughed at how ridiculous his brain could be, when a blow to the side of his head knocked the thought out of him. He had learned to go limp after a few good punches, but the jocks seemed especially feral today, and he didn't have to pretend when they released his arms and he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

Sudden movement, a chair overturned. "C'mon. I got a bad feeling about this."

"What…where are you going?"

"We are gonna go check some dumpsters."

"D'you think being the kicker makes you one of us, fag? You're nothing."

With Kurt down, the boot party potion of the festivities had begun. He was having a hard time hearing their taunts, though; the blood was rushing in his ears in an odd way and he figured even if he could stand up he'd just fall down again. Things were spinning like they did when he drank April Rhodes' cheap wine. Kurt did his best to stay curled into himself, but he was having a hard time controlling his arms and legs. Finally, finally, the bell rang, and the kicking stopped.

"Grab him."

Kurt felt himself being lifted, and his stomach churned. 'Must be a dumpster somewhere after all', he thought, irrationally, and vomited down the back of the idiot carrying him. 'Score one for me.' That was his last coherent thought.

"Nothing here."

"Here either."

"Weren't you in the parking lot? C'mon."

A pause.

"Jesus."

"Kurt! Kurt! Can you hear me? Kurt….god, son, please, please…"

"Oh my god…did they do this? These are good kids, how could they do something like this?"

"Quit fucking around and call a goddamned ambulance, Schuester!"

"Right, right…yeah…I need an ambulance at McKinley High School, back parking lot. Yes. Will Schuester. No. No. A student..uh, a student was assaulted. Is he breathing?"

"Just barely. His eyes are open but they're messed up, the pupils aren't the same size. He's not saying anything and I…I don't think he can see me."

"He's breathing, shallow. He's got some facial injuries, and, um, maybe more, I'm afraid to move him."

…

"Mr. Hummel, you have to step aside now, so we can get him out of there and take care of him. Come on, sir. Just a few minutes."

"Schuester."

The teacher peels himself away from the cluster of faculty and students who have gathered, some concerned, some just interested in the drama. "Yeah, Burt?"

A fist swings, connecting solidly with his jaw.

"I told you there would be hell to pay, and I meant it. You should have been paying attention! You should have opened your god-damned eyes!"

Both men are crying. Will welcomes the pain in his face, knowing that the other man is right.