(Author's note: this chapter was both easy and hard to write. I've been thinking about it for months, and I was able to write Kurt with Chopin's Nocture on repeat, but the words for Finn didn't come until I sat and listened to Jonathan Groff's amazing rendition of Scott Alan's song Now. Go find it on iTunes, seriously. Also, if you are reading the Sarah story, 1,000 Sarahs, chapter 2 in that story runs concurrent with this chapter and the next one, so you can read them in either order without spoilers. -amy)

Brad had Kurt playing the Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C# minor. The new piece was exactly the sort of tune that Kurt could relate to these days: lovely, full of hope, but pensive and mournful.

"Watch this modulation," Brad said, pointing to the second part. "I think most pianists play it too slowly. It's not a particularly fast piece, but there's movement here, and you can't let it slow down too much or you'll get bogged down in the details."

Kurt didn't respond for long enough that Brad had to say, "Kurt?" again. He looked up, startled, then sighed.

"Oh... yeah. Sorry. I'm a little... well, it's been a hard week."

Brad nodded sympathetically to the backdrop of laughing, trampling toddler feet. "Hang on," said Brad, pushing the piano bench out and stepping out into the hallway. "I'm going to send them outside to play while we finish."

"It's not a big deal," Kurt protested, but Brad was already down the hall. He could hear his quiet baritone speaking to the kids - and then a teasing Southern drawl that sounded strangely familiar. He was on his feet and out the door before he realized what he was doing.

"Toby?"

"Hey, Kurt." Toby nodded at him, inclining his head towards the practice room. He had Duncan in one arm and Cory was hanging on to the other leg. "Piano lesson?"

Kurt's cheeks cramped with the force of his smile; it felt like it had been a long time since he'd been so happy. "Oh my god," he laughed. "I had no idea you were still in town. This is - does Mr. Schue know you're here?"

"No." Toby lowered his voice. "No, he doesn't. It's kind of a secret."

Kurt frowned. He'd had enough of secrets. He bent down on one knee, eye level with little Cory, and gave her a little wave. "You glad to see your uncle Toby?"

"He's funny," Cory said, finger still in her mouth. Kurt exchanged an amused look with Toby, who rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"I was just about to have a snack and read a book with these little monsters. You want to finish your lesson? I'll try to keep them out of your hair."

Kurt hesitated a little too long, and Brad chuckled. "I think we're done for today," Brad said. "You go on and read, the four of you. I'll bring something to eat out to the family room."

Toby ushered the kids up the hall, then hung back a moment, draping a casual arm over Kurt's shoulder. "Those boys of yours still got you in knots?"

"You have no idea," Kurt sighed, settling into Toby's comforting arm. It was strange to think he'd just met this man a few days before; he already felt so familiar, as though he'd known him all his life. "I feel a little guilty, because... because what we have is so amazing, and at the first sign of trouble, here I am, losing my mind. But Finn's so closed off, and Puck's - " He pressed his lips together. Toby didn't know anything about that part of their relationship, and he didn't think this was the time or the place to tell him about it. If ever.

Toby chuckled lightly. "Let me guess... Puck is complicated. Well, so is Will." He rolled his eyes. "I think it might be our cross to bear, something of a trade off for being fabulous queens."

Kurt felt the laughter bubble up inside him, and then he was sputtering and wiping his eyes, much to the amusement of the two kids. "Oh," he said, gasping, "that - nobody's ever said that to me with as much authority as you did, just now. And I never thought I'd be so - pleased to be called something like that."

"It can be a powerful thing, claiming your identity." Toby stood aside and nodded for Kurt to move ahead of them to the family room. Duncan and Cory were already settled on the couch, a book open across both of their laps.

"Read this one, uncle Toby!" Duncan shouted, holding up the thick white tome.

"Third time this visit," Toby whispered to Kurt. "Okay. Let's see... here we go." He opened the book to the first page, where there was a picture of a rolling circular shape with a wedge cut out, like a mouth.

"It was missing a piece. And it was not happy." He turned the page. "So it set off in search of its missing piece. And as it rolled it sang this song..." Toby's tune sounded something like "Put on a Happy Face": "Oh I'm lookin for my missin' piece, I'm lookin' for my missin' piece... Hi-dee-ho, here I go, lookin for my missin' piece."

Kurt settled into his corner of the couch and tucked his legs underneath him. Puck had told them about this story. Even though he'd never seen a picture of him, he could somehow imagine Puck's father, snuggled on the couch with Timothy and little Noah, much the same way he and Toby were sitting now with Duncan and Cory, and he felt a pang of odd desire he'd never experienced before.

Toby went on. "Sometimes it baked in the sun, but then the cool rain would come down. And sometimes it was frozen by the snow, but then the sun would come and warm it again." He ran an absent hand over Cory's white-blonde curls. "And because it was missing a piece, it could not roll very fast, so it would stop to talk to a worm, or smell a flower... and sometimes it would pass a beetle, and sometimes the beetle would pass it, and this was the best time of all."

Kurt's mind went back to some of his best times of all, these past months with Finn and Noah. Despite their recent difficulties, these memories remained, distinct and shining in the scrapbook of his mind, every bit as special as any time he'd ever spent with anyone. He couldn't bear the thought of never having any more of them. Toby glanced at him while he schooled his face and wiped his eyes, and silently handed him the handkerchief from his pocket.

"Go on," Duncan urged, patting the book. "This is the good part."

Toby obliged, singing again: "Oh I'm lookin' for my missin' piece, over land and over seas... so grease my knees and fleece my bees, I'm lookin' for my missin' piece..."

Duncan collapsed in giggles. "Grease my knees... and fleece my bees! How do you fleece bees?"

"It's a very technical term," Toby said with solemnity. "I think it has something to do with tickling." He proceeded to find each of Duncan's most sensitive spots, behind the knee, under the arm and under each foot, until he was screaming with helpless laughter.

"I'm not tickwish," Cory told Kurt firmly.

"Okay," he said, grinning at the fierce little girl, holding up his hands. "I'm not going to try."

Toby recovered the book, which had fallen face down on the couch, and continued. "And on it went, over oceans, through swamps and jungles, up mountains... and down mountains... until one day, lo and behold! "I've found my missin' piece," it sang, "I've found my missin' piece... So grease my knees and fleece my bees, I've found my . . ."

"Wait a minute," said the piece. "Before you go greasing your knees and fleecing your bees . . . I am not your missing piece. I am nobody's piece. I am my own piece. And even if I was somebody's missing piece, I don't think I'd be yours!"

"Oh," it said sadly, "I'm sorry to have bothered you." And on it rolled."

Toby paused, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Reminds me of Will, kinda," he said. "We spent so much of our childhood and teenage years dancin' around each other, tryin' to figure it out. It seemed so obvious sometimes, but then we'd try it and things would just fall apart." His brown eyes crinkled at Kurt. "It's not always easy, even when there's love."

Kurt nodded, not trusting his voice. Toby went on with the story.

"It found another piece, but this one was too small. And this one was too big... and this one was a little too sharp... and this one was too square. One time it seemed to have found the perfect piece, but it didn't stay tightly enough and lost it." Toby stopped again, and this time Kurt saw his mouth trembling. He swallowed and tried the next line. "Another time it held too tightly and it b-broke."

"Uncle Toby?" Duncan said.

"Just give him a minute," Kurt said, softly.

Eventually Toby was able to keep reading. "So on and on it rolled, having adventures, falling into holes and bumping into stone walls. And then one day it came upon another piece that seemed to be just right."

Kurt spoke up, in a spritely little voice. "Hi," it said."

Toby grinned at him. "Hi," said the piece."

"Are you anybody else's missing piece?" said Kurt.

"Not that I know of."

"Well, maybe you want to be your own piece?"

Toby thought this over. "I can be someone's and still be my own."

"Well, maybe you don't want to be mine," said Kurt.

"Maybe I do."

"Maybe we won't fit . . ."

Toby pondered. "Well . . . Hummm? Ummmm!" He was jubilant. "It fit! It fit perfectly! At last! At last!"

Kurt found himself inexplicably moved, remembering the first night on the green couch with Noah and Finn, when Noah had sung to them both for the first time, and had cried in Finn's lap, and the three of them had shared a kiss together. Exquisite, he thought, closing his eyes tight on the memory. He would never let go of it, no matter what happened.

"You okay?" Toby asked.

"Go on," Kurt murmured.

Toby did."And away it rolled, and because it was now complete, it rolled faster and faster. Faster than it had ever rolled before! So fast that it could not stop to talk to a worm, or smell a flower, too fast for a butterfly to land. But it could sing its happy song - at last it could sing, "I've found my missing piece." And it began to sing." In a funny muffled voice, like he was chewing on marbles, Toby sang: "I've found my nizzin geez, uf vroun my mitzin brees... so krease ny meas an bleez ny drees, uf frown... "

This time all four of them were doubled over with laughter by the end of the page. Kurt clutched his aching stomach muscles, pleading, "Enough, enough!"

"Oh my," Toby said, blinking away tears of mirth. "Now that it was complete, it could not sing at all. "Aha," it thought. "So that's how it is!" So it stopped rolling... and it set the piece down gently, and slowly rolled away... and as it rolled it softly sang..."

They all sang together, even the kids giving it a reasonable shot (well, thought Kurt, they were Brad's and Laurie's and Andi's kids, after all): "Oh, I'm lookin for my missin' piece, I'm lookin' for my missin' piece... Hi-dee-ho, here I go, lookin' for my missin' piece."

Duncan sighed happily as Toby closed the book. "I love that story."

"Me, too," said Toby. He looked obliquely at Kurt. "How do you think the missing piece felt about being left behind?"

Kurt didn't look back. "Well, I guess it was... confused, because things were going so well. Sometimes being completely wrapped up in someone else can be pretty amazing. And I bet it was lonely. It's not like the missing piece could roll away, looking for someone else, right?"

"Ah," said Toby. "That story is in the sequel. You should check it out some time."

The four of them were building Missing Piece homes with Duplo on the floor when Andi got home from work. "Mamamamama!" they both shouted, running for her legs, and she braced herself in an expert manner to avoid being knocked down upon entering the house.

"Hi, Kurt," she said. "One more for dinner?"

"I'd better not," he said, smiling. "I'm going to try to work some things out this evening."

Andi nodded soberly. "Good luck. We're all rooting for you guys."

Toby rose from the couch, with the words "Hold on a minute," and dashed into the hallway. He came back carrying a green fleece jacket, worn and soft. The breast bore an embroidered swan insignia, with the words Kentucky Repertory Company, and the name Toby.

"This was mine in ninth grade," Toby said. "I gave it to Will when he and Brad came down to see me in my first performance of the Nutcracker. We've been passing it back and forth like a good luck charm for the past twenty years. I'd like you to have it."

Kurt gazed at the green fleece with amazement, then up at Toby, eyes filling with tears. "Are - are you sure?"

"Definitely," Toby nodded. "It might bring you good luck, darlin.' It sure did for us."

Finn slipped out the front door without saying a word to his mother, though he guessed she'd heard him leave. It was the coldest night so far this year, and the snow was already piling up around the curbs and porches, but Finn didn't care. He needed the cold, and a chance to think without interruptions.

To new beginnings, and old friendships. And possibilities. To trust. To us. The toast they'd made, the three of them, over five weeks ago now, when they'd begun their relationship together. Now, so much meaningless dust, the memories and dreams of what could have been.

Finn stepped off the curb and walked across the street, plowing an angry path through the slush. He felt like everything had been going right - and then, all of a sudden, one thing went wrong, and after that it was just another and another, and now when he looked around himself he didn't even recognize the terrain. He couldn't figure out how he could have gotten so far off track.

He remembered how surprised he'd been by Puck's desire to be handled. On one hand, it had come from out of the blue - but on the other, it'd been like he'd always known this about Puck, about his best friend, who was so good at hiding from everybody, even from himself. And it had felt like an easy request. He knew what Puck needed, and he could give it to him. He... he wanted to give it to him.

So it's really about me, he realized bitterly, turning his collar up against the blowing snow and trudging more determinedly along the dark street. I've been focusing on what Puck needs. What about what I need? If I want to... to hit him... what does that mean about me?

It had been easy for Finn to reassure Puck that there was nothing wrong with him for wanting it. It had been, until he started to wonder about himself. Now... the harder he looked, the more uneasy he felt. How can I feel good about... wanting to hit my best friend? About wanting to control him? I mean, god, I get hard when I tell him what to do... what kind of a person wants that?

The question loomed large in Finn's mind. On one hand, he felt terrible about what he'd done, about losing control like that. Puck hadn't deserved to be hit like that, no matter how angry Finn had been. If I can't manage my own anger, maybe it'd be better for me not to be around him at all. The thought was absurdly painful - but the thought of how he'd hurt him, and what he might do again, was worse.

But there was the other hand, the one that was even harder to understand, in which he had Puck over his knee and he wasn't just doing it because Puck needed it, but because he liked it, he wanted it. And the more days he went without it, he found himself growing more and more frustrated and restless, like he didn't quite fit into his skin. He couldn't focus at school; his heart was sick and embarrassed and yet he still wanted it. And the the idea of never having it again was absolutely appalling... almost as appalling as the thought of needing it at all.

Finn scrubbed his eyes with both hands, because the sensation of tears freezing on his face was incredibly uncomfortable. If I can't get what I... need, or give Puck what he needs, without putting him in danger... what the hell am I going to do?

There was a time, he remembered, when he'd had these same worries before, and he and Kurt and Puck had worked them out, but it all seemed impossible now. He couldn't recall how they'd worked through his guilt and fear and overwhelming desire for something that... that could hurt.

I've never felt like a bad person before, Finn thought, his throat constricting. And now - I don't even know who I am.

There were no good answers, but when he thought about what to do next, all he could remember was the green couch at Kurt's, and sitting with Kurt and figuring things out. Kurt. Maybe Kurt can help me sort through this. He wasn't at all sure this was true - because if he could hurt Puck, if he could get so far off track with giving him what he needed, what was going to stop him from hurting Kurt? But he didn't think he could bring this to anyone else. It was too tangled, too wrapped up in feelings and wants and needs and everything.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and, brushing snowflakes off the screen, he called Kurt, waited through through eight rings, through the voice mail message, hung up and tried again, with the same result.

He shouldn't have bothered to call Burt, but he was desperate enough to try. "Hey, Finn," Burt said, surprised and a little cold. I deserve it, Finn thought miserably.

"Hey," he said. "I - I was just looking for Kurt, and he wasn't answering his phone, so I thought... well, I thought..."

"Oh," said Burt, clearly uncomfortable. "Uh. I think he's - he's talking to Puck."

Finn closed his eyes. "Right. Sorry to bother you."

"Finn -"

He hung up, holding his phone to his chest, letting himself fall apart a little, there on the dark snow-covered street, shoulders shaking. It was self-indulgent, but he didn't think it would matter. No one was watching or listening; no one could be hurt by anything he did, except himself.

Somehow, with nothing else around him but the blowing snow and the silent darkness, he could admit that it wasn't about the discipline or the sex. It was Puck. He missed Puck. He didn't know how he was going to get through one more night without telling him that.

Finally he dug a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose. It was starting to get icy. He turned around and headed back to his house. There was something, at least, he could do about this.

Careful to step over the slush-filled gutter, Finn made one more phone call.

"Dr. Howell and Mr. Lawton's office," said Angela.

Finn cleared his throat. "Hey - it's Finn Hudson. I need to make an appointment."

"You're still hurting," Kurt murmured, stroking the curve of Puck's shoulder where it sloped from his neck and down his arm. He held him close under the duvet, the heat generated from the recent activity of their bodies warm enough against the chilly basement.

"Those bruises won't fade for a couple more days, at least," Puck said. He shifted his head a little higher on Kurt's chest.

"Mmmm. Not that." His hand covered Puck's heart, feeling it beat.

"It's better," he said. "I don't feel so confused. Calmer. You know?"

"I know," Kurt said softly. You're not the only one who could use some discipline.

"I wanted this, too, though." Puck propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Kurt, working through it. "It was kind of weird, separating the spanking from the sex. I mean, yeah, it's something I need, but it's also a total turn on, and he - well, he said it wasn't about that. And I can understand where he's coming from, he's not going to do stuff like that for money, but..." He shrugged. "I'm just glad to be here, with you."

"Me, too, sweetheart." Kurt kissed his forehead.

Neither of them spoke about the empty space on the bed beside them, but they weren't stretching out to fill it, either.

Puck woke fifteen minutes before the first bell was due to ring. He shoved his legs into his crumpled jeans and borrowed a clean t-shirt from Kurt's drawer, grabbed a cereal bar from the cupboard and was pulling out of the driveway before he realized there was a voice mail message for him. He felt his heart race as he played it.

"Puck. It's Finn. Uh, I wanted to talk with you before school, if you have time. I'll be upstairs."

It was entirely unexpected, and he almost drove over the curb as he rounded the corner into the parking lot, he was so distracted. He checked the time. Shit. He'd be in chemistry by now.

The halls were nearly empty as he made his way past other stragglers, watching out for Figgins, sure that today was not the day to be pulled into his office for skipping class. He paused outside the chemistry lab, watching Finn and Matt leaning over their notes, oblivious to his waving arm. Kurt was closer to the door, and as Puck knocked on the glass, he glanced up and saw him there. He gave Puck one quick, secret smile before turning back to his experiment. Puck sighed.

Somehow he managed to miss Finn on the way to Spanish, too, but when he got there, everyone was busy working in pairs on conversational practice, and Finn was sitting next to the only empty seat. Mike Chang, who'd recently taken Puck's usual spot next to Finn, watched Puck with a dubious face from across the room, eyebrows raised. Mr. Schue, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, and gave Puck a calm smile. Puck thought about Kurt's unexpected visit with Toby at Brad's house, and wondered what was going down with them. Was this a conspiracy or what?

"Ola," Finn said quietly as Puck slid into the chair. "Como estás?"

"Fucking cansado," Puck muttered, rubbing his eyes, "e retrasado." Though Mr. Schue didn't seem to care much that he was late. He glanced up at Finn's face, which was wary. "Quedarse dormido."

Finn's face cleared, and he nodded. He probably thought I didn't show on purpose, thought Puck, instead of sleeping through my alarm. Finn hesitated, then said, quickly, "Quiero hablar con usted."

I want to talk to you, too. Puck nodded. "Cuando?"

"Después de la escuela?"

After school. "Perfecto," he nodded. They didn't touch, they didn't even smile, but Puck could feel something ease between the two of them, like a rubber band that had been stretched too tight, but that had been released. It wasn't going to be easy, he could tell - but it was a start.

Mr. Schue approached the two of them. "Esta bien?" he said in a low voice.

"Si," Finn nodded, glancing at Puck, who didn't quite look back, but who also nodded at Mr. Schue. "No esta mal."

"Bien," Mr. Schue murmured. "Muy bien, Puck e Finn."

Puck's phone rang once in English class, but he didn't bother to look at it until after the period was over. Maybe Kurt and Finn wouldn't show for their standing date, but he wasn't going to miss checking. He felt a tightness in his stomach at the idea, and it wasn't unpleasant.

Meemee had called, he noted, coming out of class and walking down the hall toward the staircase that led to the attic room. It had been days since he'd been up there. He wondered if it was still cold up there, and thought he might borrow that space heater Ma had in the closet at her house.

"Noah," he heard a voice say urgently, and he turned around, surprised, to see Meemee barreling down the hall toward him.

"What-?" he said, but Meemee just took his elbow and drew him into a doorway, out of the flow of traffic.

"Didn't you get my phone calls?" Meemee said. "I've been trying to call you for the last hour." His face didn't look angry. Puck couldn't tell exactly what he was feeling.

"What? I had class. I'm not even supposed to -"

"Noah," Meemee said, and now he sounded desperate. "It's Ma."

"Oh," Puck said, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I didn't think it would matter all that much, if I waited to answer. Do you want me to come to the hospital? I can skip next class. It wouldn't be so bad."

"Yeah." Meemee took his arm. "I already checked you out at the office. Come on, we should get going."

Puck wasn't going to complain at being let out of class, for any reason, so he just followed Meemee out to the parking lot. "You want me to drive?"

"No. We'll take my car." Meemee gestured at the sedan and Puck climbed in. Then he faced Puck, said, "Noah -" and Puck realized, with a start, that he was crying.

He stared at him. "Oh my god," said Puck, his voice flat.

"Noah," he said, but Puck held up a hand, horrified.

"Holy fucking shit, Meemee?"

Meemee's hands gripped the steering wheel. "They called me this morning. She was - she was just at work, it was a regular shift, just a regular shift, not even a double. And she... she collapsed." He closed his eyes, then opened them, staring fixedly at the gauges on his dashboard. When he spoke again, it was with finality.

"She died, Noah."

It wasn't really a surprise. He guessed he'd known it when Meemee had shown up in the hallway. Still, he wasn't sure how to respond. "Are - are you okay?"

Meemee shot him an outraged look. "No, I'm not okay," he shouted. "I'm not at all okay."

Puck wrinkled his brow, trying to figure out what he should be feeling. He wasn't really feeling anything. Maybe a little relief. He tried taking a breath, and didn't notice any obstruction. "All right," he said, puzzled. "Um... what should we do now? Does Sarah know?"

"I was going to pick her up next," he said, staring at Puck.

"Yeah," he said. "You sure you don't want me to drive?"

Meemee grabbed his arm. "Noah," he said, louder. "This is about Ma. She's dead. Don't you get it?"

"Don't - don't touch me," Puck said, flinching back from Meemee's hand. He felt an uneasy sensation in his chest.

"I thought she was getting better," Meemee said, and the words came faster, pouring out of him, too many for Puck to handle, and he held up an arm to ward them off, squinting as though the words were glaring light and he'd lost his sunglasses. "I thought this was going to be my chance to work it out with her, that we could get another try at it; I mean, let's face it, she was a pain in the ass, but she loved you, she loved us both, and Noah - dammit, Noah, you have no idea how hard it is out there in the world when nobody knows who you are, and how much I took her for granted; even her being angry was better than nothing -"

"Shut up," Puck yelled, and the sensation in his chest rose and crested and it was awful, he thought for a minute that he'd broken something inside him, or maybe that he was going to throw up. "Shut up, you fucking prick - you're the one who left us! Just like Dad!"

Meemee paused, his eyes wild and his lips fish-white. "Noah... I came back."

"It's too late. It's too - it's too late." Puck felt something between his lips and he opened his mouth on a frustrated scream. "You don't get a do-over, do you get it? You can't fucking hit me and get away with it!"

"I didn't," he protested, but Puck had already opened the door and was out, tearing across the parking lot. "Noah!" he heard him call, but he wasn't stopping, not until he got to the - the -

Where am I going? He stopped, staring at the car in front of him. It wasn't his. None of these cars were his. He had nowhere to go.

Meemee was on him then, wrapping his arms around Puck, and he didn't pull away, but he didn't respond, either. He just stood there. Eventually Meemee let go, slowly, and dropped his arms to his sides.

"Let's get going," Meemee said, walking him back to the car.

They drove the six miles to St. Rita's in silence. As they pulled into the parking lot, Puck thought, strange to be here in the middle of the day. I wonder if we'll run into Ma.

They came inside and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor and waited in a small reception area. "I'm going to call the temple and see if they can schedule a memorial service for her tomorrow," Meemee said.

The strange sensation in his chest persisted, and he found himself emerging from a fog into the center of it. "Ma's dead," Puck said.

Meemee shot him a startled glance. "Yeah," he said, low and tired.

Puck didn't have any reason for what he was feeling inside, but all he could think was Finn. I need Finn.

"Finn," he said, looking up at Meemee, and Meemee nodded.

"Could Kurt bring him to the hospital?"

Kurt - oh, god. "I guess," he said, with a squirm of shame. I didn't even think of him. "I'll call him."

It was after school by now, but Finn wasn't picking up on his phone, and Puck wasn't at the point where he could leave him a message, not even just to say call me. Finn would see he'd called. He'd find him. Wouldn't he?

"Don't worry about it," said Meemee, putting a hand on Puck's phone. "He'll be here later."

But I need him now, Puck thought, and for the life of him couldn't remember why.

The shorter, balding man who came out from the office was vaguely familiar. He smiled sympathetically and shook Meemee's hand, then Puck's. "Timothy, Noah, my name's Hiram Berry," he said. "I'm one of the hospital administrators. I'm so sorry for your loss. This is quite an unusual circumstance, and I'm here to help you take care of whatever needs to be done for your mother."

"Ma," said Puck. "Where is she now?"

Mr. Berry looked at him with sadness. "I'm know this is quite unexpected; you may not have been prepared for the end of her life."

"Not at all," Meemee said fervently. "I mean, she was sick, and we probably should have been, but - there's really no one else besides us, and our sister Sarah."

Where is Ma? Puck thought again in confusion, and a minute later he remembered again.

He stood and went to the door. "I'm going to - " he indicated, pointing, as Mr. Berry and Meemee watched him in surprise, and then he took off.

The stairwells were easy to hide in for a short time, and then he was in the parking lot, but it was snowing and he didn't have his truck and he didn't have any gloves or a hat or anything. This is stupid, he thought crossly, walking over to Ma's car. She doesn't need it anymore.

The key was hidden exactly where his Ma had shown him, under the back seat left side door in a magnetic case. Puck tossed the case on the seat of the car and started the car, and sat there shivering in more than the cold.

I'm sitting in a dead woman's car.

He did call Kurt, then, but he didn't barely let him get past "Noah?" before he'd hung up again. When Kurt called him back, he turned off his phone.

Then he pulled forward to the intersection, drove out into the busy streets and got lost.