He runs as fast as he can away from Burt's house. Not Burt's house. Maybe not Burt's house. He doesn't know! He has to get away in case that lady calls the cops. Maybe he should go to the cops though, ask them to find his goddamn family because they've clearly been stolen, kidnapped or something. That's what it must be - a sinister plot to drive him mad. Like a movie. Or something.

He stops when he gets far enough away, almost to Artie's house, and finally pulls his cell phone from his pocket. Duh, he'll just call them and find out what the fuck is going on!

But when he powers on the phone and gets to his address book, he finds it's empty. Not one name or number. Not even his own. Shit, the memory musta gotten wiped somehow. Maybe his own memory got wiped too! Maybe aliens abducted him and did their little tests on him (probes! eeek!) and wiped his memory and now he's misremembering where Burt and Kurt live. Maybe Nineteen-fifty was their old address and they really did find a new house and he just doesn't remember them moving to it in the past few months. Or something.

Or something or something or something.

He stands there under a tree in someone's yard trying to clear his head enough to think. He does still remember a few numbers. Ones he committed to heart. His mom's. Kurt's, he does remember that one. Puck. Quinn. Rachel. His thumb hovers over the numbers, ready to dial. His first instinct is actually to dial Rachel, not his mom, because he's totally freaking out about aliens and his family and stuff and she's always so smart about stuff. Usually. Unless she's letting her insecurities and fear make her stupid. Nonetheless, she might have the answers for him.

But he stops himself. He can't call her. He doesn't need her anymore, right? It's over and he's done with her, right? Right.

So he quickly dials his mother's number. He dances in place a bit, trying to keep warm, nervous. The voicemail picks up. "Hello, this is Carol. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I'll call you right back," his mom says into his ear.

"Mom! Mom, where are you? I went to Burt and Kurt's and you guys aren't there! Maybe I went to the wrong house, I don't know! I'm really confused. I think I hit my head or got abducted by aliens. I dunno. Whatever. Call me! Call me call me call me as soon as you get this!"

He dials her three more times in a row. Keeps getting the voicemail. He texts her, his freezing fingers having trouble on the keypad. He needs to get out of the cold. He should go to Artie's. And he's almost there when he realizes he and his family went to Florida for the holidays. Shit! Shit. He could go to someone else's house but running around all over town seems, like, totally inefficient. And Clarence is gone. He needs a plan. He'll try Kurt, and if he doesn't pick up, he'll go to the coffee house on Main Street and regroup. Okay. Good.

Kurt answers after the fourth ring and relief pools in his stomach like warm coffee. "Kurt! Thank god. Where are you?"

There's a pause on the other end. "Excuse me? Who is this?"

"It's me! Finn! Where are you guys? Did you-did you already get a new house and move? Is this some sort of surprise party thing, like when mom led me down to your basement to show me our room? Where's my mom? I'm locked out of my house. Where are you?"

"Calm. The. Fuck. Down. And tell me who this is," Kurt answers very smoothly. It only infuriates him and frustrates him further.

"It's Finn. F-I-N-N. Finn Hudson!"

"Finn Hudson. Where did we meet? Were you at Shakey's Pizza last night? Were you with Dean and Andy?"

He just doesn't know what to say anymore. Where did they meet? Who are Dean and Andy? He takes a deep breath. Tries to calm down. "Kurt. Stop fucking with me. It's not funny. I was in a car accident, okay, and I'm all messed up, so just tell me where you are right fucking now!"

He hears Kurt make some scoffing sound on the line. "I'm in Screw-You-Ville, asshole. I don't know who you think you're calling or why or what you want but don't call this number again!"

He screams in frustration when the call ends. Stupid selfish Kurt! Why is he doing this to him! God! God, he just wishes he knew what the hell was going on with everyone today!


He walks to Main Street, hands shoved deep into his puffy vest's pockets. He tries calling Quinn - voicemail. He doesn't rant and rave, he just asks for a call back. He tries Puck's number - no answer, no voicemail. He toys with the phone in his pocket, toying with the idea of calling Rachel. No, he can figure this out on his own, he decides. He will find someone. Maybe Mr. Schuester can help him. But he's so hungry and cold now. He needs coffee. He needs to think.

Martini's Coffee House is his favorite place for coffee in all of Lima. Their coffee is the best and in the winter they have a little fire in their old brick fireplace. He brought Rachel here a month ago, just after Thanksgiving. They snuggled by the fire in the big comfy chair. He teased her when she got cinnamon whipped cream on the end of her nose. That had been nice. It'd definitely been cuddle weather on that particular night.

He wants to sit in that chair again - maybe it will calm his frayed nerves.

Walking into Martini's, he absentmindedly gives his order to the gal behind the counter. "What size?" she asks. "Tall, grande, or venti?"

He looks up at her. "Uh. Large?"

"Large is venti."

"Since when?" The gal gives him a funny look. "Whatever. Venti. And can I get one of those big sweet rolls, too. Please."

"That'll be four-ninety."

He digs in his pants pocket and finds his wallet. Which is empty. Completely. No ID, no money, no...um, condom. "Shit," he spits out. "They robbed me. They stole my car and robbed me."

The gal at the counter raises an eyebrow. "Who did?"

"The aliens."

Her eyebrow gets higher. "What?"

"Lookit, I'm really sorry but I don't have any money or cards or anything, but can I just, like, pay you back later? I've been outside all night and I'm really hungry and I don't usually beg but I'm having the worst day. Please? Please?"

"Um."

"Where is Mr. Martini? He knows me, he can vouch for me. I come here all the time."

"Mr. Martini?"

Oh god, not again.

And then he sees it. The barista's apron - it's green. And it says Starbucks on it. As does her hat. He spins around, looking for the fire in the fireplace. There isn't any fire. No comfy chair. Just sterile looking metal chairs and tables. And a bunch of crazy-named coffee drinks printed on the board above the counter.

"This is a Starbucks now? Are you kidding me?" The barista is still staring at him like he's insane. He thinks he must be.

"Young man, either pay for your order now or move aside," a stern voice behind him warns. He knows that voice. He whips around - he never thought he'd be so glad to see Sue Sylvester! She's glaring at him but he doesn't care, she can help him! "Miss Sylvester! Miss Sylvester, can I borrow five dollars?"

Her grin is icy, amused. "What do I look like? A charity ward?"

"Please, Miss Sylvester? I know you and the glee club have had your differences in the past, but I thought after Christmas Eve at Mr. Schuester's house, you might be a little more-"

"Schuester? No, I only ever spend Christmas Eve at the hospital, stealing flowers from patients and toys from the dying children."

"But we brought a tree. You sang 'Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.'" And she got a little bit drunk on the eggnog Puck spiked. They all did. He was tipsy enough to kiss Rachel's cheek as they were leaving, and then stupid enough to tell her he shouldn't have done that.

"I don't know what kind of hallucinogenic drugs you're on and I don't care, I just want my damn grande low fat gingerbread latte and a cheese Danish." She points at the barista. "To go. Make it snappy. Get out of my way," she demands, pushing by him, making him stumble a little. He glares at her - what an evil witch she is, what a fucking fraud. He can't take it anymore!

"Miss Sylvester, what makes you such hard-skulled cow? Is it because you have no friends, no children? Is it because you hate anything you can't have - like talent and love? You can't begin to spend all the money you've got and you won't even give me five lousy bucks? What's wrong with you?" He's making a scene, he knows, but he can't help it. It's worth it for the look of shock on Miss Sylvester's face. "I know I'm not supposed to yell at teachers, but-but I don't care! Screw you! You suck! Nobody likes you!" Her face is red and blotchy with fury, rage twisting her thin lips. She could well expel him. Fine! So be it. He spins away and sees how everyone in the shop stares at him. "Starbucks sucks, too!"

And with that he blows outta there like a bull in a china shop, shoving tables and chairs out of his way, shoving out the door and back into the cold.


He succumbs. He calls Rachel. He has to. He waits with baited breath as it rings. And rings. And rings. And rings. "Please pick up," he whispers. But no. No answer. No voicemail. He hangs up, feeling gutted. He could go to her house. But if she doesn't want to talk to him, maybe that's not the best idea. So he goes to see Mr. Schuester. He needs help. He needs sleep and food. Mr. Schue will help him.

But when, standing at the front door of his condo, a very tired-looking Mr. Schuester asks, "I'm sorry, who are you?" he starts to cry. Not just cry - bawl.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he gasps between sobs, sagging against the doorframe, trying to keep himself upright. "Mr. Schue, what is going on? It's me. Finn. From glee club, from Spanish One! Why are you all torturing me like this?"

"Oh were you in one of my classes at McKinley? I didn't recognize you, I'm sorry. I haven't been a teacher in more than a year."

He clings onto the wood molding, his knees feeling rubbery, and he has a sudden, instinctual insight, he knows not from where. "Are you- You're not an accountant, are you?" he asks weakly.

"I am."

He stares at Mr. Schuester through a watery haze, the world spinning crazily around him. "And glee club - I wasn't in it, was I?"

"Well, um. It was only Kurt Hummel, Mercedes Jones, Artie Abrams, Tina Cohen-Chang, and-and...Rachel, Rachel Berry." Something clouds over Mr. Schue's face, something dark and fleeting. "But I don't think it continued after I left. Did it?"

He's not sure. He's not sure of anything. Before he can answer, he hears screaming from inside the condo - a baby howling. "You have a baby?"

"Yeah."

There's another sort of screaming then - Mrs. Schuester. "Will! Will! The baby, Will!"

"Why can't you get her, Terri?" Mr. Schue screams back over his shoulder. "For once," he adds, muttering.

"I'm watching Real Housewives, Will! I need my me time, you know that!"

He sees how Mr. Schue rolls his eyes, his mouth falling open in a dark scowl. "I'm coming, dammit," Mr. Schue growls. He finally looks back to Finn, his face softening slightly. "Son, do you want me to call your parents for you, to come pick you up?"

God, he explained this already. Why is no one listening? But rather than explain it again, he just shakes his head. The baby inside and the wife inside are still screaming, distracting, splitting his head into pieces. He just wants to leave. "No. That's okay. I'm, uh, I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Well, take care then. It was good to see you again."

Bullshit. He's getting the idea. Mr. Schuester has never seen him before in his life.

Before Mr. Schue can close the door in his face, Finn says, "I'm sorry things turned out this way for you, Mr. Schuester." That stops his teacher, his not-teacher, and he opens the door a little more. Finn can see pain pinching his face and making him look older. "You were a good teacher. When you weren't messing with us for your own purposes. Which you did do sometimes, I have to admit. I wish you'd stuck with your dreams."

Now Schue is the one who seems about to cry. "Yeah. Me, too."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

The door is closing again, Mr. Schue going back to his squalling family, but again Finn has to stop him, desperation taking over. "Uh, Mr. Schuester? Can I have some money? I've lost my wallet and I just need a few dollars for a coffee or something." He feels like the sorriest wretch in the world and the pitying look on Mr. Schue's face just makes it ten times worse. But when Mr. Schue takes a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and hands it over, he feels like he could kiss the man.

The door closes quietly, with a click, and he's alone again. And realizing just how alone he really is, it seems. He clutches the money in his fist and fights off the urge to start bawling again, wishing and praying he could just wake up from this nightmare already.


TBC.