Author's Note: Is anyone close to solving the mystery? We'll be revealing the truth pretty soon, but it might take a little longer for Sam to solve the puzzle. Leave a review!

Chapter Three: Finish Each Day

Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Finish Each Day"

Quinn Fabray, age 17, was the image of perfection – blonde curls done up in an immaculate ponytail, pristine and freshly pressed cheerleading uniform and, of course, pom-poms at the ready. In just moments, the whistle would sound shrilly through the air and she would march out, flanked by her Cheerios, to pull off another flawless routine. Quinn's muscles tensed when she heard the whistle blow. This was it. She squared her shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and marched out onto the field – one, two, one, two, left, right, left. Here was the green grass, the floodlights, the stadiums packed with spectators, all holding their breath. Quinn froze on the spot, pom-poms raised high, waiting for the music.

"Hey! Little Miss Cheerio!" someone called.

Quinn didn't move, didn't even tremble. This was her first halftime show since last year, since Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman and Shelby Corcoran and – she pushed it all out of her mind. She would ignore them. Every jeer.

"Yeah, yeah, that's right. I'm talking to you!" the same voice screamed. Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn saw Santana emerge from the tunnel and stomp to centre field. Quinn seethed, gritting her teeth and squaring herself against her competition.

"So," Santana drawled, circling Quinn like a vulture, "You're head cheerleader, hey? You think you're all that?"

"Did you really think that was going to work on me?" Quinn answered loudly, turning to face Santana. They faced each other, moving in a constant circle. Quinn was getting a little dizzy. "You were just going to call me out, right here, right now? Right in front of everybody?"

Her blonde ponytail swayed back and forth as she leaned forward, threatening Santana with her red and white pom-poms. "You're looking for a reaction, aren't you?" Quinn cooed.

An unmistakable drumbeat began pounding across the field. Quinn grinned, lazily dropping the threatening pom-pom to her side.

"Well, Santana," Quinn smiled, "I ain't no hollaback girl."

The crowd went wild and, as Gwen Stefani started chanting about bananas, Quinn slid into position next to Santana, stomping ferociously and waving her hands in the air. Sue Sylvester's mighty squad of Cheerios attacked the field in full force, executing backflips and lifts with perfect accuracy. And in the centre of it all was Quinn, pouring herself into the routine like nothing had ever changed.

No boys this year, she thought to herself, kicking forward as she began to spin. No drama. No babies.

The speakers went silent, and the squad froze in position. Quinn was poised atop a pyramid, one leg in the air, high above her head. Applause tore through the stadium, and Quinn closed her eyes as the rest of the squad lowered her down.

As the Cheerios marched in single file off the field, Quinn's heart raced. She still had it. She had brought an entire football stadium to its knees. This was her year. Her very own.

Sam lingered in the locker room long after everybody else had left, letting the hot water numb his aching body. Little rivers streamed down his body as he turned and twisted lazily. He'd gotten tackled pretty hard in the third quarter, and he was still a little sore.

He tilted his face up to the water, sighing as droplets splashed against his forehead and went slowly climbing down to his chin. He was trying to erase the longings, the yearnings that stemmed from non-existent memories.

He'd been walking off the field at the end of the game and pulling off his helmet when a blur of motion caught his eye. He had turned to see one of his teammates – Sam vaguely recognized him as the quarterback, Finn Hudson - getting clapped on the back by some guy Sam guessed was his dad.

"Good job, son!" the guy had bellowed, pulling Finn into a hug. "Your mother and I are so proud of you!"

Sam gasped for breath, turning away from the stinging jets of the shower. Those words kept running through his head, haunting him – your mother and I, your mother and I, son, so proud, son.

He wondered about her sometimes, his mother. And even though he had no recollection of her, he missed her. On paper, she was Stacy Evans, dead of a heroin overdose at only nineteen years. In his mind, he had only one vision of her – he imagined her, dreamed about her, even; she was stooped over on the steps of Saint Cecilia House, crying as she wrapped him up in a blanket and kissed his tiny forehead over and over again. He always woke up just as she was ringing the doorbell and running away through the labyrinthine back alleys of the worst parts of Detroit. Sam sighed and leaned against the cold side of the stall, fumbling around for his shampoo.

"I listen to our favourite song, playin' on the radio," he sang, squirting some gel into his hands and letting it ooze through his fingertips. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

"Hear the DJ say love's a game of easy come and easy go," Sam crooned, running his hands through his shaggy hair. "But I wonder, does he know? Has he ever felt like this?"

He spun around under the streaming water, letting lather splash against the cold metal walls of his stall.

"And I know that you'd be here right now-" He paused to grab a bar of soap and hold it to his face like a microphone. "If I could have let you know somehow..."

He leaned onto his heels, imagining his soap was a microphone and the shower was his spotlight. "I guess every rose has its thorn, yeah, it does. Just like every night has its dawn..."

He chuckled at himself and turned to rinse out his hair. He was just another cowboy singing a sad, sad song. He knew overdoses, the wrong ends of razors, and the cold sting of angry fists on his face. He knew orphanages and funerals and loneliness and loss and hurt, hurt, hurt. He had been alive and breathing for seventeen years, and he had seen more than most people would see in their whole lives, but he hadn't seen love. Not yet.

He twisted the taps, letting the water flow slowly to a drip. Swinging a towel around his hips, he walked back to the lockers, nearly slipping on some wet tile, and all the while singing.

"Every rose has its thorn..."