A/N: So I've been thinking through this story and I'm getting a little excited, not gonna lie! I've got a much clearer idea about where it's heading, at least for the next few chapters or so. If you have any thoughts, questions, ideas, or just want to say 'hello', don't hesitate to drop me a review!

D/C: I do not own any Glee characters. I'm just borrowing them temporarily.

Rosalie James was not a heartless woman. This was something she insisted to herself on a regular basis because on a regular basis she felt like one. The problem was, as much as she might have genuinely cared for each and every child she worked to help, her job simply didn't allow for it.

A veteran in her field, Rosalie came across as harsh and unfeeling to the uninitiated, but it was this hardened shell that had allowed her to stick it out so long in a thankless, underpaid job. If she let herself really care – if she let herself get attached – she wouldn't have lasted a five years as a social worker in Columbus. Instead, she'd made it twenty. She made it twenty and had helped thousands of children escape hard situations – situations much harder than she herself had ever faced herself. It was her hard shell, her refusal to get attached that allowed her to look at every situation objectively – to look beyond what people wanted and how they felt and make sure they got what they needed. She was a veteran, and damn good at her job.

Still, even Rosalie James would sometimes feel the weight of the burdens carried by the children she was assigned to. It was days like this, when she had already logged her twelfth long hour, when the tight dark bun the Latina normally tied her hair into was starting to loosen, when the unexpected outburst of an overly sensitive nurse kept running over and over through her memory, that Rosalie knew it was time for her next vacation – time to recharge her batteries and fix the cracks in her shell caused by unexpected attacks she hadn't had time to brace for. Sitting alone in her office in the nearly deserted building, Rosalie leaned back in her chair with a heavy, tired sigh. She removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. She could feel her heartbeat pounding behind her eyes, sending pulses of pain through the whole left side of her head. She silently cursed. I don't have time for this. I don't have time for a migraine, she thought woefully. And in truth, she didn't. There was far too much work to do – far too many phone calls yet to make.

With a bracing breath she straightened again and opened the next file in the stack. She glanced over the details – little girl, 6-years-old, found crying and tied to a chair… Rosalie felt a dull pang in her chest that the woman knew from experience only spelled trouble. Definitely time for a vacation. Shaking away the compassion she reached for the phone, pressed the receiver to her ear and dialed the daughter's grandmother. Now was not the time to get emotional. She needed to find a placement for the girl, and fast. She only hoped this conversation went better than the one she'd had three days ago with the man who might have set a record with the number of times he said "faggot" over the course of their short conversation.

"They l-lied to me, K-kurt! H-h-how could they h-have l-lied to m-me-he-he?" Rachel hiccupped her words in between loud, wailing sobs, and she was nearly incoherent to the boy on the other side of the phone call. It was getting late – really late – but as annoying as Rachel could be, she really was his friend, and his worry over the situation he only partly understood had long ago smothered all thoughts of needing to wake up for school in the morning.

Kurt didn't fully understand why she was crying, only that it had something to do with her parents, them lying, and her being the "only one." Still, he could hear the pain and misery she was feeling and it made him want to cry, too. Pain he understood. Misery he understood. He let out a stuttered breath and glanced around his basement bedroom. The lights were out save for a single lamp on his vanity. His moisturizing routine lay abandoned halfway through. The digital clock near his bed that he didn't use read 12:12. "I'm so sorry, Rachel," he whispered, afraid to wake his father who had to get up even earlier than him. "I'm sure – I mean – I doubt they did it to hurt you," he said. "I mean, they love you. Hell, they built a shrine to you in the extra bedroom." That elicited a quick, chuckle and Kurt smiled a little at the sound. He leaned back a bit on his bed, propping himself with his free hand behind him.

The boy listened for a minute as the crying quieted. Rachel continued sniffing loudly and letting out intermittent sobs, but at least she wasn't wailing anymore. He waited. Rachel rarely ran out of things to say and he was sure that once she caught her breath she'd keep right on talking. He wasn't disappointed. "It's just – I spent this whole time thinking I was the first, and I was exactly what they wanted from the start, and then I find out the only reason I exist is because it didn't work out with my brother? I mean – God I don't even know what to think about that," she rambled, her voice high-pitched from crying.

This time, though, Kurt had heard the word 'brother'. "Wait – what? Rachel, I can barely understand you. Honey, please, just – take a breath. Slow down, ok?" he pleaded. Through the phone Kurt heard her sniff and hiccup as she tried to quiet her sobs.

"Rachel," he continued gently, "I'm sure it isn't like that." Though, Kurt could not have been sure of any such thing. "Now – just breathe for a bit and then you can start at the begin—"

A loud knock at his door interrupted the conversation. Kurt cursed silently under his breath when the door opened and his father's footsteps thudded on the stairs. The boy's eyes widened as he turned to meet Burt's tired eyes as he emerged from the shaddows "Kurt," he grunted softly but sternly, "it's time for bed. Say goodnight to your friend."

Kurt cursed under his breath. How does he do that? There wasn't any room for discussion, though, Kurt could tell. Rachel's sniffling had quieted though, so he assumed that she could hear his father's voice. "I'm sorry, Rachel, I have to go," he told her regretfully. She said nothing in return, though, only sniffed. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, ok? Just – try and get some sleep." He felt his heart clench slightly at her listless response. She simply agreed sadly and wished him goodnight. "Goodnight," he replied quietly and hung up the phone.

Kurt looked up at his dad. Burt, satisfied, let his tone soften. "Sweet dreams, Buddy," he said, and Kurt, still doing his best to save his dad from any stress, forced a smile.

"You, too."

He watched him turn away and listened as the older man trekked back up the stairs. As soon as the door clicked closed, Kurt released the breath he'd been holding and tossed his phone on the bed beside him. He moved the arm he'd had propping him and flopped back on the bed. Silently, the boy stared at the shadowed ceiling that almost seemed to swim the longer her stared. A brother. That was news, except he didn't really know what kind of news it really was. He'd no idea what Rachel meant by saying it hadn't "worked out." Had they tried for a boy and failed? Was there something wrong with the baby? Had they tried adopting? Before or after they had Rachel? He was pretty sure Shelby didn't have any kids. He probably should have been feeling worse for his friend than he did, but he couldn't help that the whole idea had him curious, and better than that, it made for a nice distraction. It had been far too long since Kurt had wondered anything other than where his next Slushie facial was coming from.

…And in other news, a local man was arrested last night when authorities arrived on the scene of a convenience store robbery in progress. Twenty-three-year-old Jonathan Abrams was armed, but no one was injured. Police suspect his involvement in a series of armed robberies that have taken place in downtown Columbus over the last month, one of which ended in the injury and hospitalization of a 40-year-old school teacher…

Blaine Anderson let out a huff and turned his eyes away from the television to check the clock on his cell phone. The television in the hospital waiting room was set on a 24-hour news loop, providing just enough background noise to keep the 16-year-old from sleeping. He'd hardly slept since he'd arrived at Columbus Presbyterian nearly four full days ago. The dark circles that sagged under his eyes and the pallor of his olive skin testified to that. He'd been there for hours, and after being encouraged to try and sleep, in the harshly lit room, he'd tried (and failed). Having given up his efforts after an hour though he'd decided to try and give his system a boost with caffeine instead.

Now slightly wired thanks to the drink that tasted vaguely of charred mud, Blaine bounced his leg unconsciously while clutching his paper cup. He'd refill it soon if he felt himself slipping. His mother would be coming out of surgery soon, and he needed to be awake for her when she did. He didn't want to miss his mother's return to her room. He had at least fifteen messages waiting for him in his inbox, his friends – or rather, his friend – wanting to know what had happened, where he was, why he wasn't in school. He wanted so badly to have someone to talk to, someone to hold his hand and comfort him.

Bethany had always been good for that. When his mother and he got into fights, when Darrell made his life at home unbearable, when Adam decided he wanted nothing more to do with the Sophomore, his friend Bethany was there. Except that now, here, as much as Blaine wanted her, he really wanted no one there. He didn't want to talk about what was happening because he didn't really know yet. He couldn't tell her the story because he was waiting to see how it ended. He was hoping still that this wasn't as bad as he feared, that soon his mother's bruises would fade, she'd open her eyes, and squeeze his hand, promise him it would be just the two of them again – the way it used to be – and they would live happily ever after. But this was reality, not a fairytale.

Blaine looked up expectantly when he heard the doorknob click. He hoped it would be his nurse – he didn't know her name, but she was on from 9 to 9 and it was 9:37 a.m. the last he'd checked. The door opened and Blaine straightened. The woman in the doorway wasn't his nurse and he deflated slightly. The woman there was dressed in a blue skirt and a white ruffled blouse. She had tan skin, darker than his, and dark black hair pulled into a tight bun. She was a family member no doubt – someone else here to just sit around and wait while someone else was responsible for her husband or mother or father or God-forbid, her kid. Hope instantly faded, Blaine slouched back in his chair, his attention having dropped from the woman as soon as he'd realized she wasn't there for him. He only hoped she wouldn't try and chat with him while they waited.

It took him a moment to realize the woman hadn't moved. She was still standing in the doorway of the waiting room, her dark eyes cold and locked on him, as if she was waiting for him to react to her. "Blaine Anderson?" she asked in a quiet, no-nonsense tone. He straightened, watching her, his brows furrowing automatically with question and distrust, but he said nothing. For the first time he noticed she had a file folder in her hand. "My name is Rosalie James. We met a few days ago. I'm a social worker, and it's my job to make sure you're taken care of. I'm afraid it's time we finally have our talk. Please, come with me."