AN: Written for karofskyrps on tumblr for kurtofskyfest 2015.

Warnings: Very AU, but references to canon. Age difference (older Dave, younger Kurt). Suicidal ideations/botched suicide attempt, car accidents, traumatic injuries, references to death (no major characters), references to past alcoholism, depression, anxiety, hurt/comfort, blow jobs, frottage, and medical mumbo-jumbo.

Promises of Tomorrow

Chapter 1

Blacking Out

"Excuse me…"

In the backseat of the unmoving cab, Kurt Hummel rapped his knuckles against the glass window that separated him with the driver—the front seat with the back seat. He squirmed anxiously in his leather, cushioned seat before unbuckling his belt as he leaned forward to speak through the partition.

"Is there any way we could, I don't know, hurry up just a little bit." He grimaced. He hated to be rude, but he couldn't afford to be late to his internship at Runway Magazine. Again. As nice as his boss, Liliana, was, she warned him time and time again that though she wouldn't fire him, she couldn't guarantee he would receive his last three credits that he needed to graduate. That was something he would have to talk to his adviser about.

"Sorry, bud," the cab driver said with a bristle of his salt-and-pepper mustache. "Unless you want me to run the red light, we ain't goin' nowhere in this traffic."

Kurt sat back in his squashy seat with a soft harrumph as he crossed his arms. He could think of few things worse than traffic in California—the combination of the sun's harsh rays on his naturally alabaster skin being the one exception. Running the seven miles to work was beginning to seem like a faster alternative.

Thankfully, the light turned green, but before he could even begin to question how his day could get any worse, he minutely felt a sensation of complete and utter relaxation spread throughout his body. His head swam and his shoulders drooped. As an inky blackness began to spread from the edges of his vision in, he heard the growl of an engine revving before he saw, and heard, no more.

He couldn't have picked a better place to do it.

David Karofsky closed his eyes as he let himself smile for the first time in weeks. He inhaled deeply as he wrapped his hands around the tarnished, wave-worn metal banister of the pier. Drinking in the cold, salty air, he relished in the few droplets of water that had breached from the waves below and hit his face. It stung his cheeks and nose as if they weren't innocuous specks, but shards of unforgiving glass.

Innocuous… Dave had to snort. Innocuous would have been his parents teaching him how to swim before his body image issues hit him in his pubescent years only to follow him through high school. Though he had gotten over that and accepted himself as the burly and broad man that he was, he just… Never got around to learning that lifesaving skill.

He wasn't sure if he should call living half a mile from the beach ironic, fate, or intentional. After all, there were a number of catastrophes that could make his endeavor that much easier. A tsunami… Alaska was bound to have an earthquake one of these days, only to send the aftershocks to California—he wouldn't be surprised it Nostradamous predicted that shit himself. Then there was the potential of the San Andrea's fault giving its final "fuck you" and sending that entire state of fitness junkies and hipsters into join Hawaii…

Dave shook his head, casting that thought far out into the ocean much like the fishing line's of the fisherman who would normally sit where he was standing.

No. He truly didn't consider himself a vindictive enough man to wish that on anybody. He was apathetic where his life was concerned, but when it came to other people… He cared too damn much. It's why he decided to become a doctor, after all. But it's also why losing someone on the table kept him up at night, questioning, "Why that person? Why the mother of three kids, or why the child who barely got to see his life unfold?"

So was he depressed…? Yes. Being shunned from his family at the age of 17 for being gay and going more than a hundred grand in debt just so he could have first row seats in seeing someone's life being extinguished would do that to a person.

Suicidal…? Obviously. If he wasn't, then wouldn't have come down to the Santa Monica Pier in the middle of February at five thirty in the morning, shivering like an idiot, if he had to live with himself after the fact.

There was really no sense in delaying the inevitable. He wasn't happy—hadn't been for a long time. The time he spent with his head buried in an anatomy and physiology textbook from his freshman year of college till now only supplanted enjoyment with the diversion of productivity. And productivity was no substitute when it came to living a full life. And trying to save someone else's life was hypocritical when he cared so little about his own.

Dave exhaled the breath he was holding as the deoxygenated contents made his lungs throb. He wouldn't allow himself to contemplate whether the same would be said when they were filled with the briny waters from below, and instead, opened his eyes to the horizon to take in the orange glow that was creeping across the cloudy sky from the sunrise behind him. But before he could gather the strength and fortitude to push himself headlong over the railing, an inky blackness began to creep into his periphery as he felt his knees grow weak, and his eyes begin to droop against his will.

The last thing he heard over the waves crashing under him was a resounding crack, followed by a blinding amount of pain, and then he saw no more.

Dave smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled like this. The feeling of joy in his chest was almost painful, made him choke on this foreign emotion that was swallowing him up like the waves under the pier.

Only… There were no waves. There wasn't even any evidence that there had ever been waves—no briny smell of fish or seaweed, no icy cold waters numbing his skin and filling his lungs.

This wasn't… He hadn't finally gone through with it… Had he?

Was this the afterlife?

The darkness that had flooded his vision was starting to ebb away… Slowly receding like a wave being drawn back into the ocean from the shore. And just as there was no smell of the ocean there was no tactile proof that his body was being dragged the sandy floor either. Instead he felt like… Yes. Like he was dreaming.

As he looked around at his surroundings, he found he was sitting on a cream colored carpet in a tastefully, if not ostentatiously, decorated home. Far more decorated than his own apartment. He never had the patience to put that much thought, care, and money into his own living space. Not when he spent the majority of his time at the hospital anyways.

He didn't know where he was.

He felt like he should be panicking. Could he have been kidnapped? Or had somebody found his body in the water and took him to safety. A million questions seemed to run through his head, though strangely he felt no desire to find answers to any of them. Instead, he felt his body being dragged against its will. But… No… Not dragged, per se. It was as though he was a tiny Dave, inside a bigger Dave, and he was just along for a ride. He wanted to be alarmed. After all, every part of his being told him he should be running to get out of that strange place he had never been before, but all he could do was leisurely roll onto his knees and crawl across the carpet like a dog on all fours until he found his eyes meeting with a pair of great big inky blue irises, full of an unbelievable amount of innocent, childlike curiosity.

The smile on his face grew impossibly larger as he reached out. A tinkling laugh filling the air.

It was so… Tiny.

He had never delivered a baby before—gynecology wasn't exactly his calling. And being an only child meant that he never had to deal with siblings or even nieces and nephews growing up, so it was only natural for him to want to cry out and demand why anybody would be stupid enough to entrust him with caring for a helpless infant, only… He didn't feel any trepidation. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing and felt happy to be doing it. 'It' being leaning over this tiny human that could only be two years old, at the most, and skittering his fingers over its pudgy torso, gently tickling it as it gave a toothy giggle. Its face bunched up as it kicked and screeched and squirmed as Dave proceeded to litter tiny kisses over its squishy cheeks.

It was one of the best sounds he ever heard.

As if the baby's laughter had thwarted him and he conceded defeat, he stopped his tickling and picked up the green teething ring by the baby's head. He need not put it in the baby's hands as the stubby little fingers snatched it from him and began gnashing on the rubbery material quite enthusiastically. He barked out a laugh that would have been unrecognizable to his ears if it hadn't been reverberating from his own chest. He smoothed down the soft brown hair that was stubbornly sticking up, just before he heard a buzz coming from his pocket.

A phone. His phone?

He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the device. It looked new. And unlike the phone he had now. He had just received a text message, but his eyes were drawn to the date on the screen.

November 9, 2020

That… Couldn't be right could it?

It didn't matter whether the date was right or not. He stood up carefully, taking a step back only to find himself knocking into something hard and firm and unyielding, yet soft and small and delicate, and somehow he knew this… thing… he was bumping into was a person before he saw the pair of arms wrapping around his torso from behind.

He wanted to gasp. But no such sound came out of his mouth. He also wanted to yell in jubilance, feeling grateful that he wasn't alone in this strange, strange world. But he found that all he could do was chuckle as he covered the hands that rested just below his belly button with his own as he was filled enormous sense of well-being.

He didn't even know who the pair of hands belonged to, but he felt deep down, somehow, that he knew. The way he felt was just… Indescribable, like… Like saving a life… Or a first kiss…

It was freeing and selfless and thrilling, and he knew there was a much simpler word for it.

Love… And it was actualized in the matching wedding bands that wrapped around both his and the stranger's ring fingers.

He felt his heart beat faster, confirming his suspicions. He was able to pinpoint this emotion he was feeling. The person, whoever it was that was hugging him, had his head buried against his neck and he felt a pair of lips press against his skin. A voice rang out, sounding sharp and clearer than anything he had ever heard in a dream—obviously masculine, yet more melodic than most.

"Thank you."

Just as curiosity was starting to get the best of him, he, too, felt thankful as he revolved on the spot slowly to face the stranger. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, not bothering to read the text or see who it was from. The arms holding him never completely left his body, and he found himself face to face with what could only be the single most breathtaking man he ever laid eyes on. He had skin like ivory and glowing pink cheeks that he could only assume was exacerbated by the brilliant smile on his face. The stormy, blue-gray eyes sparkled with an unbelievable amount of happiness and vitality; it was practically contagious as he felt himself grinning goofily like a lovesick boy in high school. He didn't know what the man was thanking him for, or maybe he did and simply didn't care, because all he could think of was how badly he wanted to capture those lips so soft and pink and perfect with his own, so… He did.

For the first time since he arrived in this strange apartment he didn't argue with the sheer illogicality of it, didn't try to make sense of what was happening. He just gave in to his unbridled desires as he cupped the man's face and brought their lips together, kissing him with such sincerity… Like he had something to prove. Like he needed this man to know just how spectacular he was whether he knew him or not.

"I love you, Kurt."

Kurt? He didn't know any Kurt. Though the fact that he had never seen this man before in his life was a testament enough to that fact. But the words had slipped out before he could stop them, though he doubted he could. He didn't seem to have any control over any of his actions, but he brushed his lips against the man's once more as if to punctuate the meaning of his words. And he knew the man didn't doubt them as he pulled back and saw his eyes glittering with unshed tears of happiness. The plump lips pressed themselves in a line, fighting the growing smile on his face as if the man was trying to keep his happiness contained—as if it would be a very horrible thing for it to burst forth from his body like a dam, never to be felt again.

Dave, too, was beginning to feel like this was a very terrifying and real possibility.

"I love you too, David," the man… Kurt… said without an ounce of uncertainty, and Dave wrapped his arms around his lithe shoulders practically enveloping the smaller man as he nuzzled his nose into the hair at the top of his head, inhaling the intoxicating scent, and closed his eyes.

Dave moaned, gingerly sitting up from whatever hard surface he was laying on. He blearily blinked his eyes to clear them of the residual fog that was clouding his vision. He felt as though he was waking from a ridiculously prolonged nap.

In his cross-legged position on the pier, Dave rubbed his hands over his eyes as he attempted to remember how he ended up there.

'How long have I been out?' he wondered, listening to the slosh of waves below him as he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in the palms of his hands. He winced, his head jolting back when he felt the throbbing pain at his os frontis. Carefully, he touched his fingertips to his forehead just below the left side of his hairline before pulling his hand down to see if there was any blood.

There wasn't any, but he could feel the beginnings of a bump forming where he must have struck the metal banister.

Dave stood on wobbly legs and refrained from looking around to see whether anyone had managed to show up at the pier just in time to witness him passing out. He'd rather save himself the embarrassment of knowing. As he brushed himself off he knew it was unlikely. The pier was desolate when he arrived that morning. Everyone was either on their way to work or still sleeping. He, on the other hand, was a special case. He woke up that morning, put on his work scrubs, and decided he would go for a walk. A walk that he used to go on many mornings before falling back into his usual pit of despair. This stroll, though… He intended on it being his last one.

But plans changed, it seemed.

The thought of what he had set out to accomplish resigned itself to lurk in the back of his mind and was replaced with not as much as a will to live but a simple curiosity. While he still felt pretty morose in general… he didn't feel quite as empty as he did when he woke up that morning. This time when he rested his hands on the banister, it was to recall the vivid, angelic face that he saw in his dream… vision… whatever the hell it was that caused him to collapse on the pier.

It felt so real. Like he was acting out a scene from a play—the lines he spouted, scripted, and his movements, methodical yet natural. It couldn't be likened to a lucid dream that he could control, nor a hazy sequence that jumped from one scenario to the next. It felt more like… A memory. A memory where he could recall the emotions that seemed to flood his system faster than the morphine drip that he gave to his patients. The churning in his stomach like the current below him, powerful enough to knock him out and make his head spin. There was nothing like it. The only problem was the glaring fact—glaring disappointment?—that he had no recollection of ever accumulating this memory.

He didn't know what scared him more: The mystery of not knowing where this so-called memory came from, or knowing that such happiness was unobtainable in his own life.

Quite suddenly, Dave felt a vibration coupled with a buzz from his hip, causing him to jump in surprise. He lifted the hem of his jacket where he found his work pager still attached to the waistband of his scrub pants. Somehow, it managed to stay on despite his fall.

Dave couldn't help but let out a grumble at being interrupted while attempting to relive that kiss. Temporarily putting that thought on hold, Dave unclipped the device and stared at the message on the small analog screen, feeling as though his heart descended from his thoracic cavity and into the icy waters below.

-CODE TRIAGE-

Dave attempted to swallow the lump that formed in his throat. In the almost four years he had been a resident at Ronald Reagan Hospital at UCLA, they have never been issued this sort of emergency. Sure they've had code reds and code grays, but this… This was bad.

Dave pulled his phone out of his pocket to call for a lift as he began making his way back down the pier. He took no more than three steps before stopping dead in his tracks. He clutched his phone in his hand as he stared towards the horizon, his mouth agape. He felt a fiery ball of panic growing in his chest not unlike the multiple plumes of smoke that could be seen rising from the skyline of the city.

Something horrible had happened. He just wasn't entirely sure what.

It took Dave more than thirty minutes to get to the hospital, and once he arrived he was sweaty, panicked, and more confused than ever.

The cab had been a no-go, he quickly found out after he reached the street. All Uber services were temporarily unavailable, whatever that meant. But it didn't matter. His patients needed him, so he didn't have any other choice. But he soon discovered the reason for this once he broke out into a brisk jog towards his place of employment.

What he saw was something out of an apocalypse movie. The streets were clogged with traffic. That in itself wasn't unusual, but many of the drivers and passengers had exited their vehicles and were standing around with looks of confusion on their faces that were bound to match his.

As he jogged down the sidewalk, he attempted to make sense of the chaos that was surrounding him. The people looked shaken if not jarred. Some even stood outside their apartments or shops to see the commotion taking place outside.

"What the hell was that?"

"Dude, my fucking bumper! My dad's gonna kill me!"

"Did you see it too?"

"Can somebody tell me what the fuck just happened?"

Dave might as well have said the last exclamation himself. He wished there was something he could do to help, but he needed to get to the hospital. Besides, the people on this block looked more perplexed than injured. Somebody else would come along to help them.

Many miles up the road and far beyond the hospital, Dave doubted the commuters were as lucky. He could see where the plumes of smoke were coming from, and he came to the conclusion that there had to be a car accident. His numerous questions remained unanswered until he was huffing through the sliding glass doors into the bustling emergency room of the hospital.

Almost immediately he felt a smack on his arm and let out a yelp.

"Jesus!"

"Where the hell have you been?"

Dave swiveled towards the accusatory voice and faced his assailant, already knowing who it was. Glowering, he rubbed his arm as he faced the busty, Hispanic woman wearing fitted lilac nurse's scrubs.

Santana Lopez placed her hands authoritatively on her hips, like she was the one in charge of Dave and not the other way around. Well, he would be in a few short months, anyway. Dave rolled his eyes as he continued to walk past her to the staff lounge.

"Something come up?" Dave asked, sounding far too blasé as he sidestepped her, weaving through a few other nurses who were talking animatedly and in hushed tones. Once he made it into the room, he unzipped his jacket and stripped it off. One of his fellow residents was asleep on the couch after finishing a long shift, he was sure.

"You're damn right, something came up," Santana snarked. Dave hoped she had abandoned him at the door—he really didn't want to divulge his reasons for being so late to work despite his nearly 12 year friendship with the woman. But no such luck. She was quick on his heels. He doubted anything would change once he completed his residency. Despite their often combative, sibling-like friendship she, for whatever reason, latched onto him during their first day of Chemistry at UCLA. He couldn't imagine her ditching him any time soon.

As Dave opened his locker to stuff the sweater inside, he saw Santana picking up the television remote off the coffee table to turn up the volume, not caring if she woke the only other occupant in the room.

"Are you even listening?" Santana asked when he slammed the locker door shut. It was obvious that he wasn't. He was lost, once again, in his thoughts about what he saw that morning, both on the streets and in his head. Mostly what he saw in his head. He finally paid her a glance and saw she had the same frenzied expression as the people on the street. She was pointing at the T.V. and he followed the length of her arm that was pointing towards the screen, which was currently on News Channel 7.

"…keep you up to date on the incident that occurred earlier this hour. Our producers tell us that the blackout was not limited to our people here at KABC. We are steadily being informed of the numerous reports of similar blackouts throughout the country. At first we believed the incident was localized to our news station, before receiving intel from our crew at various sites throughout the city regarding similar occurrences. Shortly after receiving this information, we were told by our sister station in D.C that…" The anchorwoman paused, touching a hand to the earpiece she was wearing as if listening to her producers.

Blackouts? Like rolling blackouts? Dave looked to Santana, but she shushed him before he could open his mouth, and he turned his head back to the television. He wished Santana would just come out with it.

"Yes, we now have confirmation of blackouts in Nevada, Arizona, and…"

"I don't understand… What the hell is happening?" Dave said as he snatched the remote from Santana's hands and muted the T.V. "Blackouts? Does this have anything to do with…?"

"Everyone getting knocked on their asses at the exact same time?" Santana cut in. "Yeah."

Dave frowned suspiciously at Santana and shook his head as if maybe he didn't hear her correctly. "I'm sorry, what? I was going to ask if this had anything to do with the code triage. What do you mean everyone…?"

"Did you or did you not pass out a while ago?"

"Did you?" Dave narrowed his eyes. He felt like a very cruel practical joke had been pulled on him. But a practical joke that involved the entire city of Los Angeles…?

"Yes," Santana looked dumbstruck. "And so did everyone else in the hospital. The doctors. The nurses. Hell, even the patients. One minute we're fine and then, next thing you know, we're picking ourselves off the floor like the morning after a keggar."

Dave needed to sit down, but with the couch occupied he found himself opting to sit on the edge of the coffee table instead. He stared up at her, slouched with his elbows on his knees.

"Do you have any idea what happens when everybody just decides to take a nap in the middle of whatever they're doing without any warning?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Car accidents, Dave. Drownings. People falling in the shower. Planes falling from the sky." She took a breath as she collected herself. "We… Haven't been able to get a hold of the flight paramedics. There's a good chance that…"

Santana didn't need to finish the sentence. His stomach lurched at what she was implying. He couldn't begin to make sense of what could cause something like this to happen. Santana must have read his mind because she continued.

"We're in a state of emergency," she pressed. "At first they thought it was some sort of chemical warfare. You know, it's kind of suspicious when everyone in the White House passes out for no reason, but the more information the news people got, the more they realized they weren't the only ones it happened to."

"So you're saying the whole United States just passed out at the same time?"

Santana shook her head.

"Not just the United States," she paused, taking a breath as if she could barely believe it herself. "It happened everywhere, Dave. In the world."

Dave wished he had enough time to dwell on this information, but his pager started to buzz again causing his to jump up from his makeshift seat. The red signs above the doors began to flash as a pleasant voice rang out over the speakers-a voice too pleasant considering the circumstances.

" Trauma team activation, room 3… Trauma team activation, room 3…"

"Come on," he said. It was time to get to work. Santana followed him out of the room dutifully, making their way to the trauma bay.

"Have you seen Dr. Matthews?" Dave asked Santana as they weaved through the bustling hall. She gave him a worried look when he glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Her shift starts the same time as ours. Haven't seen her yet, though."

"Fuck," Dave cursed under his breath as he walked down the sterile, white hall lined with spare hospital beds.

Dr. Matthews was the doctor who supervised him during surgery. However, being a fourth year resident meant if they didn't have an emergency room physician or surgeon available, he was the designated team leader during their primary survey of the patient.

"What about Dr. Rosenberg?" he asked. Dr. Rosenberg was one of the neurosurgeons who usually came into work the same time as Dave.

"Dr. Rosenberg is in surgery right now, Dr. Karofsky." It wasn't Santana who answered Dave, but Pam, their stout, seasoned, and motherly charge nurse. Rather than stopping at the triage desk where she sat, Dave continued to the wash room down the next hall. She joined the two of them, clutching a clipboard.

"Dr. Matthews and Dr. Leigh are on their way, and the trauma team is coming down from upstairs." Pam explained as her short legs struggled to keep up. "We have an autolaunch inbound. Male. 22 years old. Extricated from the back of a vehicle that collided with a building on Wilshire Boulevard. The driver was found dead at the scene."

"Was the patient restrained?" Dave asked as he and Santana entered a room only slightly larger than a bathroom. It contained long, metal sinks and surgery garb. Pam stood outside the door, propping it open with her hip as her eyes scanned the clipboard. She shook her head sadly.

"No, but EMTs will give you the rest of the info," Pam said as Dave and Santana scrubbed their hands thoroughly with soap and hot water. She was about to shut the door to return to the triage desk as more technicians entered the room. They all assisted each other with tying their gowns and putting on their gloves. Once they were standing outside the door, Santana handed out the bright pink stickers they had to wear in order to designate their role in the trauma bay. Santana kept the usual "RN Scribe" sticker for herself and handed Dave the "Team Leader" sticker. He gave her a look with pursed lips as she slapped it on him.

"You'll be fine," she said, and he wished he believed her. He had only been the team leader a handful of other times, but only when Dr. Matthews was in the room to prompt him if he had trouble recalling the procedure or to take over for him if he needed her to.

He couldn't help but reminisce on his early days as a first and second year resident when all he had to worry about was cutting the patients clothes off, extracting blood from the femoral artery, and analyzing it.

"Just don't over think it."

Dave nodded along, taking in a deep breath.

"Oh, and Dave?" Santana asked.

Dave looked up.

"Don't fuck it up."

"Gee, thanks," Dave countered. Sometimes a sense of humor was the only thing that kept them sane during the day. That and helping their patients.

Almost as if on cue, two of their EMTs were coming through the glass doors at the end of the hall pushing a stretcher. Dave secured his mask and pulled down his visor.

"Okay, guys," Dave said steeling himself as he followed his team into the room. "Here we go."

'I can do this.'

As the gurney was rolled into the room, Dave gave a curt nod to the two men. Like Santana, he had known the pair for many years having worked at the same hospital, but now wasn't the time for friendly greetings. He stared at the unmoving form on the stretcher as Hudson and Puckerman helped the technicians transfer the patient onto the hospital bed.

"What do we got?" Dave asked Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman. Though he had already got the gist of the information from Pam about the patient's status, it was important to hear the whole story from the paramedics.

"22 year old male. Car accident. He was in the backseat when we found him. Unconcious, unresponsive, and unrestrained. A GCS of 8. Luckily all the damage was to the front of the vehicle. Obvious head injury and fracture to the left femur, though. And a few superficial cuts to the face. Most likely from the broken glass. Guy is lucky to be alive," Puck said quickly as Dave nodded along, listening to the information that was being relayed to him. He could see Santana in his periphery, her pen flying over the clipboard as she copied everything down. The masked respiratory specialist took over squeezing the AMBU-bag.

"What made you decide not to intubate?" Dave asked, concerned. Too many clinicians have contributed to patient morality for waiting too long to intubate.

"He seized twice on the way over here, but that's not all." Usually seizing was a good enough reason to intubate, but Dave allowed Puck to explain. "He was being slightly combative."

"Combative? With a Glasgow Coma Scale of 8?" It didn't make any sense.

"More like… Violent talking in his sleep." Finn cut in. Puck nodded in agreement.

"He wouldn't open his eyes, but he kept thrashing and saying one name over and over again."

"What name?" Dave asked, intrigued but also concerned.

"David, actually," Finn said. Dave frowned. "It's a common name. Must be a family member, or boyfriend maybe."

"David… Right…" Dave repeated. It was strange. He couldn't make out much of the patient other than the marble-like skin of his hands and face, mussed, shiny brown hair, and his extremely elaborate ensemble. He looked like he could have been a model considering the way he dressed.

"We're going to want to intubate him, what with the chance of facial swelling," Dave told his team before turning back to the EMTs.

"Thanks, we'll take it from here," Dave told Finn and Puck. Sure, the guy was lucky to be alive, but the possibility of a brain injury meant oxygen deprivation from swelling or brain bleeds.

"Oh wait," Dave called out, just as the EMTs were heading out the door. They turned around, standing in the threshold. "Could you figure out the name? Of our patient."

"Yeah," Puck said, looking at his notes. "Kurt… Kurt Hummel."