* * *

“Emmett? Emmett, wake up.”

Emmett Brown opened his eyes, blinking a couple times before he focused on the face of his wife looming above. Clara was pale, her eyes rimmed with dark shadows. For a moment he was not sure where he was. The night before, when Jules had started crying a bit after midnight, he had wound up staying up with the baby until after 4 A.M., when the infant finally fell into an exhausted sleep. He remembered setting the baby down in the cradle and joining his wife in the bedroom. Clara, he recalled, had been awake, unable to sleep as long as her child cried. The couple had exchanged a few words, then Doc joined her in bed.

And now...now it was now, whenever that was.

“What’s wrong?” he muttered, bracing himself for another bout of pacing the floor. But he didn’t hear anything -- he certainly did not hear a baby crying.

“It’s time to get ready for church,” Clara said.

“Church?” Doc croaked, hoping this was a joke. He raised his head off the pillow and looked at the bedside clock, barely visible in the first light of dawn. The time was 6:02 A.M. “Are you sure?”

“It is Sunday,” Clara said. “I’m as exhausted as you, but you know we must be there, especially today. Jules is to be christened, remember?”

Doc closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. It was the small town gossips that made it such a sin to skip church, he knew. If he didn’t go or if Clara didn’t go, there would be talk. Only illness was seen as an acceptable excuse to stay home. Most of the time he didn’t mind going there -- the sense of community was nice, and it was, frankly, the most social event of the week. But in the two months since they’d had the baby, it had become somewhat of an ordeal to make the trip.

Clara was right, however. If their son had his christening today, they absolutely had to be there.

“All right,” he said, opening his eyes. “I’ll deal with Marty if you want to handle Jules.”

“After I get dressed,” Clara said. “I don’t want to disturb the baby now that he’s finally sleeping.”

And I don’t particularly want to disturb Marty, Doc thought, frowning. He sat up with a sigh, pausing a moment to lean over and massage his forehead, which ached dully. He had survived on little sleep before -- sometimes he thrived in spite of a lack of rest -- but there was a difference between remaining awake due to adrenaline or excitement, and being forced awake due to a crying, fussy child.

The inventor lit the bedside lamp and dressed in the required Sunday best. He left Clara, still getting ready, and checked on the baby in the nursery. Jules lay in his cradle on his stomach, covered by a small quilt that the new schoolteacher had sewed for him, sleeping peacefully. Doc watched his son for a moment, seeing the rise and fall of his back, a feeling of amazement and love swelling in his chest. Even after all these days, he still found it difficult to believe that he, Emmett L. Brown, was now a father.

He left the room feeling a little more energized than when he had gone in.

Doc detoured into the kitchen to start the fire in the cast iron stove, and then reluctantly paid a visit to Marty’s bedroom. The door, he saw, was ajar, and the teen was not in bed. He recalled, vaguely, mentioning to his friend that he could use the study to escape the noise, so Doc checked there first. He found Marty curled up on the couch in the room, bundled up in a couple quilts up to his nose. The scientist called his name a couple times, but when that didn’t seem to provoke any reaction, he crossed the floor and gave the lump of quilts a shake.

“Time to get up, now,” he said firmly.

Marty groaned. “Why?” he croaked.

“It’s Sunday. Church.”

“No way,” Marty said flatly. He pulled the blankets over his head.

“Yes way. You know we all need to go -- no excuses. Jules is going to be christened today. You can take a nap when we get home.”

“But I’ve been up all night...”

Doc gritted his teeth a little at the whine in his friend’s voice. “So have Clara and myself,” he said without sympathy. “Get dressed, and by that point I’ll have a strong pot of coffee made.”

“Aw, for cryin’ out loud....”

Doc left his friend in the study. When he reached the end of the hallway, he heard Marty go across the hall into his rightful room and close the door. Good. He just hoped that he wouldn’t simply go back to bed. The inventor didn’t feel up to facing a drawn out battle of wits with a stubborn teenager at that hour of the day.

Clara met him at the foot of the stairs wearing a new lavender gown that she had finished sewing just two weeks before. Her figure, two months after having a baby, already seemed to be almost as small as it had been before, but Doc knew that most of that was due to the corsets women wore now. It amazed him why his wife -- why any woman, for that matter -- would subject herself to that kind of pain and binding simply for fashion.

“Jules is still asleep,” she said. “I’m of a mind to wait until just before we leave to rouse him. He was up so late last night.”

“If you do that, how do you expect to feed him?” Doc asked. “In the carriage? You certainly won’t be able to do it in church.”

“No,” Clara said. “No, of course not.” She sighed and turned, wearily heading up the stairs once more.

Doc took it upon himself to get breakfast started while his wife tended to the baby. Minutes later, he heard Jules start to cry, clearly not appreciating the early morning wake up call. But soon after he lapsed into silence, no doubt because he was being fed.

Marty wandered in just as the coffee finished and took a seat at the table without a word. Doc was pleased to see that he was dressed in his nice clothes. Like Clara, he looked exhausted, faint circles hanging under his eyes. Doc suspected that the same could be found on his own face if he looked in the mirror.

“Here,” Doc said, pouring a cup of coffee. “Drink this.” He set it down before his friend on the table. Marty glanced up at him, looking dazed.

“How long is this gonna go on, Doc?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long is your kid going to be screaming through the night?”

Doc poured himself a generous share of coffee before answering the question. “I’m not sure. I’m told it takes a bit of time before babies sleep through the night.”

“It’s been two months.”

“It’s only been two months,” Doc corrected. He took a long swallow of the hot, bitter brew, grimacing a bit as he lowered the mug. “You’re not expected to participate in tending to him, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t sleep through it.” Marty took a sip from the coffee, wincing from the taste as he set it back down to the table. “If it wasn’t the middle of winter, I’d stay at the shop until this crying all night thing is over.”

“I’m not opposed to your doing that. Actually, if you’d like, you could stay out in the barn. Might be a bit warmer than the shop in town.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Marty looked down into the mouth of the mug.

Clara joined them a short time later carrying the baby in her arms. Jules’ eyes were half closed as he rested his head on Clara’s shoulder. Clara had dressed him into a white gown that she had stitched over the last couple months, complete with a tiny white knit cap. The gown and cap combined to make him look, well....

“He looks like a girl in that,” Marty said, making no pains to be tactful with his assessment. “Why don’t you have him in anything, you know, not a dress?”

“It’s his christening gown, Marty,” Clara explained, unoffended. “They all look like this, don’t they Emmett?”

“They do now,” he agreed.

“All babies wear gowns,” Clara added, as if Marty hadn’t noticed Jules’ attire as of late. “They’re not shortened until they’re able to crawl.” She looked at her husband. “Can you take him so I can finish breakfast.”

“Certainly.”

Doc gently lifted Jules out of his mother’s arms. The baby let out a faint whimper before settling back down, his head heavy on the inventor’s shoulder. By the time Clara set out the servings of oatmeal and toast on the table, Jules was asleep. She whisked him out of Doc’s arms and away to a playpen in the adjacent room, something the scientist had built one afternoon in December. It made it a bit more convenient for her when she was doing household chores or cooking.

The meal was conducted in almost utter silence, as everyone was too tired to really converse. When Doc finished eating, he headed outside to hitch the horses to the carriage and bring it around to the front of the house. He had bought the latter just a few weeks earlier, after the baby was born and it was clear that a better mode of transportation than the buckboard wagon would be required for town outings. It wasn’t covered, however, open to the elements. Marty brought out several warm wool blankets for their laps, and once coats, hats, gloves, and scarves had been donned, the three headed off to town. Clara clutched the baby close during the trip, little Jules wrapped snugly in a couple blankets as protection against the biting wind. The baby woke up during the trip, not surprisingly, and fussed a little, but didn’t start crying as he had been doing the night before.

Church services started at nine A.M. They arrived with just ten minutes to spare, the snow and ice on the roads warranting some caution. Doc let his wife off near the front of the church, sending Marty in with her while he parked the carriage in the field alongside the church. On his way towards the doors, he happened to bump into Seamus McFly, who had just settled his own horse and buggy.

“Emmett!” the farmer said cheerfully. “How’ve you been? How’s the missus?”

“Fine,” Doc said, mustering a smile for the smaller man. “We’re all fine. A little tired from the baby,” he added, knowing that he looked peaked from the lack of rest.

“Ah, he keepin’ you up at night?” Seamus asked with the air of experience. He certainly had that. His son, William, was now 23 months old, and they had a new one at home, a three-month-old little girl named Madeline. “Have you tried givin’ him warm ginger water?”

“I think so. I think we’ve tried just about every suggestion given to us,” Doc said as they reached the steps of the church.

“Well...he’ll outgrow it soon enough, t’be sure. Maddie’s just now settlin’ down for the night. We’re hopin’ once we get the house built that everyone will be sleepin’ better.”

The McFlys, Doc knew, were still squeezed into a tiny two-room cabin. Through the grapevine, the inventor heard that Seamus had paid for a shipment of lumber to arrive in the spring, after the thaw, at which point he planned to start building a frame house beside the cabin. Doc suspected that he might find himself assisting in that project -- it was what the townsfolk did in Hill Valley now -- but the idea made him nervous. He, Clara, and Marty -- William’s great-grandson -- had never been present in the original timeline. Therefore any contributions any of them made towards a new home for the present McFlys could put the entire space-time continuum at risk.

His brain was too tired to start running through possible scenarios of disaster, however. It was barely March; there was still snow on the ground. Seamus was not going to be breaking ground for a month, at least. “I’m sure that will help,” he said in response to the farmer’s comment.

Seamus bid him a goodbye as they entered the church, the small front room crowded with people hanging coats and other clothing that they had worn on the journey. Doc found an empty hook for his overcoat, hat, and scarf, and then headed into the adjacent nave to search for his wife and Marty. He saw them after a moment, sitting in the same pew that they always occupied near the back of the room. (An appropriately inconspicuous place in Doc’s opinion.) Marty, who preferred sitting on the aisle, stood as Doc approached, allowing him to squeeze by and sit between him and Clara.

“How is Jules?” the scientist asked immediately.

“Well, so far,” Clara said, pulling his cap back a little and allowing the inventor to see the blinking eyes of their son. His eyes were a deep, dark blue, but Doc suspected that the color would change in the coming months. The shade seemed much darker than Marty’s eyes, for example. Clara smiled as she glanced down at the baby, giving his back a gentle rub. “He’s much calmer than he was last night. I hope he behaves himself this morning. I would hate to have him scream during the service and christening.”

Doc shared her hope. He didn’t want to attract the ire and attention of most of the townsfolk this morning. The less noticed they could be, the better.

The service began minutes later, and the crowd settled down once the pastor stepped to the podium up front to begin his sermon for the day. The man was fairly new to the area, having arrived the prior September, and Doc supposed he was good enough for his job, but he wasn’t the most engaging of public speakers. After a few minutes, the drone of his voice had a rather soothing, hypnotic effect -- the last thing the scientist needed after a night of little sleep. He sat up straighter and took a deep breath, blinking rapidly and imagining a steaming hot cup of coffee that would await him after the service. A glance to his right and he saw that Clara, too, wore a glazed look on her face. The baby had fallen asleep. That was one good thing about it, Doc supposed.

When he looked to Marty, seated on his left, he found his friend’s head bowed and eyes closed. Doc seriously doubted that he was praying. He gave the teen a sharp, subtle jab in the ribs with his elbow. Marty’s head snapped up and his eyes opened at once. He glanced over at Doc, the look laced with annoyance.

“What?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

“Stay awake,” Doc whispered back.

“I was -- I am.”

Doc gave him a mighty skeptical look. Marty looked away, towards the front of the church, frowning. The inventor sighed and tried to follow the rambling words from the pastor, who was using a theme of charitable acts today. Doc reached into the pocket of his vest and withdrew his pocket watch, doing his best to be subtle as he opened the face and checked the time. 9:21 A.M. The services usually did not end until around ten.

Doc tried to focus his mind on something. Perhaps the new time machine. Yes, that would be an acceptable distraction. Marty’s words late the night before had hit a little too close to home. Since the baby’s birth, he really hadn’t had much time at all to focus on the new machine. He felt only a little guilty about that. Granted, the sooner that it was completed, the sooner they could all leave this time and Doc wouldn’t have to worry so much about every little move he, Clara, Marty, or Jules made, and how it would influence history.

On the other hand, he had been quite busy making the adjustments towards being a father, helping out his wife, keeping the business running and income being generated, and so forth. Marty, in Doc’s opinion, should understand that and be patient. Things would settle down, he was sure...he hoped. And once Jules wasn’t up at night so much, keeping the entire household awake with him, things would get even better.

Doc looked around the room, finding distraction necessary, and once more his eyes settled on Marty. The teen, again, had his head bowed and eyes closed. Remembering his denial last time, the inventor watched him a moment, waiting for him to open his eyes or give any signal that he was simply “resting his eyes” for a moment. None came. In fact, Doc noticed Marty’s breathing had changed, grown deeper and more pronounced.

“Marty,” he murmured under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clara’s head turn to see what was going on.

Marty didn’t move. Well aware that there were eyes all around them -- though, taking a quick look around, Doc was relieved to see that no one seemed to be paying them any mind -- the inventor leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Marty!”

He felt a nudge from his right and turned his head to see Clara. She shook her head faintly. Doc frowned at her, but let it go. He kept one eye on his friend as the service continued. Marty slouched forward by degrees as the minutes passed, his head drooping lower, but no one around them seemed to notice. Doc sent a silent prayer of thanks for their position at the back of the room.

The pastor was getting near the end of things, asking the congregation to take a moment to pray for a few people in town who were in need of it for various reasons. Doc hurriedly bowed his head and closed his eyes. They would be called forward momentarily, he knew, for Jules’ christening. He opened his eyes, his head still bowed, and turned his head enough to glance to his left. Marty hadn’t moved. With everyone distracted, Doc once more planted his elbow firmly in his friend’s side, hoping to jar him awake.

Perhaps he had underestimated how deeply under Marty was. Rather than start up, the nudge pitched him to the left. Doc watched, too surprised to immediately react, as the teen fell diagonally off the seat and towards the aisle. His forehead collided with the back of the pew before them, and then he hit the ground with a weighty thud.

Oh God, Doc thought, horrified, as every single head in the room turned to stare at them.

* * *

Church had never been Marty’s thing. Growing up, he had more or less been dragged until his parents gave up. Since landing in the past, he had pretty much been dragged by Doc because the services were so crucial to stemming tides of gossip and the like. People were more apt to be noticed if they didn’t attend any church than if they did.

It was usually a struggle for him to stay awake during the sermons on a good day. After a night of sketchy sleep, it was downright impossible. Minutes into the pastor’s spiel, he found it too hard to keep his eyes open. It was easier just to close them -- then he could listen better. His thoughts, though, soon drifted so much that he really wasn’t aware of the guy’s monotonous murmur from the front.

When he felt Doc nudge him that first time, he tried to snap back to attention, looking around in hopes of distracting himself from the exhaustion dragging him down. His eyes came to rest on Jules, held in Clara’s arms, and he felt a stir of jealousy in his gut. It wasn’t the first time he had such a feeling, and it usually caught him off guard like now.

No one’s coming down on him for sleeping now, Marty thought enviously. It didn’t seem fair, especially since the baby was the reason they were all so worn out in the first place.

So he decided the hell with it, and stopped trying to fight the inevitable.

The next thing he really knew was that he was on the ground, and there was a horrible, splitting pain above his right eye. He blinked, dazed, and raised his head up. He was lying in the aisleway of the church, on his side. Every single person was staring at him, heads turned and necks craned. The room was quiet; even the pastor had fallen into a shocked silence.

What happened? he wondered dully.

He felt hands on his shoulder a second later, rolling him onto his back. Doc loomed above, his eyes wide and horrified. “Are you all right?” he asked. Although his words were pitched down to a whisper, they nevertheless carried quite well against the vaulted ceiling of the church.

“Uh...uh-huh.” Marty reached up to touch the ache above his right eye. He hissed a breath through his teeth at the pain and drew his hand back quickly. His fingertips, he saw, were stained with a smear of blood.

The silence was dissolving now into whispers and low murmurs. A few men from the congregation had made their way out to the aisleway and peered down at Marty, looking concerned. Doc pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to the teen, who immediately pressed it to the ache above his eye. “He’s fine,” Doc announced to the crowd. “There’s just a bump.”

The scientist bent over and helped Marty to his feet, and then ushered him quickly to the bench that was in the front coatroom of the church. Marty didn’t put up any resistance, still dazed from the sudden transition from dozing in the pew to being splayed out on the floor next to it.

“What happened, Doc?” he asked when they were out of earshot of the congregation. Marty could hear the pastor speaking again, trying to settle the crowd down from the interruption. The scientist closed the door that separated the coat room from the nave and turned around.

“Put your head back,” he said at once. “I want to have a look at that.”

Marty obediently leaned back against the wall and lowered the handkerchief from the wound. The lump was starting to throb now. Doc took the handkerchief from his hand and prodded at the cut, causing Marty to flinch and draw away as much as he could with a wall right behind him.

“Sorry,” Doc said. After a moment he stepped away and handed back the bloodied fabric. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but I’d like the doctor to take a look at it.”

Clara slipped through the doors, Jules held firmly against her chest. The baby didn’t seem at all disturbed by the sudden ruckus. “What happened?” she asked softly, once the door was shut again.

“That’s what I’d like to know!” Marty said.

“You fell asleep,” Doc said, looking down at him. “When I went to nudge you awake for the christening, before people noticed, I’m afraid I knocked you right over. You hit the back of the pew ahead of us here.” He pointed to his right eyebrow where Marty’s cut was located.

Clara clicked her tongue nervously as she leaned over to peer at Marty’s face. “Emmett, I told you not to disturb him.”

Doc turned to regard her with a frown. “I don’t think that the congregation would take very kindly to the idea of him sleeping through the service.”

“Well, no one can fault him for it.” She sighed. “We’re all dreadfully exhausted. I had to pinch myself more than once to stay awake today.”

The inventor made a vague sound, turning back to Marty. “How does your head feel? Are you feeling dizzy? Sick to your stomach?”

“My head hurts, but scratch the other stuff.” He tentatively removed the handkerchief from his forehead and the swiftly swelling lump. “Is it still bleeding?”

“A little. Keep the pressure on it.”

Before he could say much else, the door opened again and the town doctor, William Peterson, slipped into the small room. He glanced at Marty before turning to the scientist. “Did he faint?” he asked.

“I think so,” Doc fibbed smoothly. “He didn’t have breakfast this morning, and we’ve all been a bit tired from the baby…. I’m more concerned about the bump on his head, especially after the accident a couple years ago. Can you take a look at it?”

The doctor nodded as he removed his coat and began to roll back his sleeves. “That’s why I came here,” he said. “Can you fetch me some water, a towel, and a clean washrag?”

Doc went off to get the requested materials. The doctor told Marty to lean back against the wall and lower the handkerchief so he could examine the wound. Once the inventor returned, the doctor dampened the washcloth and gently dabbed at the bump, wiping it clean. Marty closed his eyes, holding his breath against the discomfort during the ordeal.

“I don’t think it is serious,” the doctor said after a moment. “The bleeding is already beginning to slow, but there will be an ugly bump there. Just keep a watch on him today and let me know if anything changes...or if he has any more fainting spells.”

Marty opened his eyes and exhaled as the Dr. Peterson finally moved his hands away from the bump. He handed the teenager the damp rag, instructing him to apply pressure to it just as Doc had done. Next, he turned to look at Clara and the baby. “Your son is keeping you up at night, is he?”

“Yes,” Clara said, not denying it. “He’s very fussy at that time. You don’t think it is anything serious, do you?” she added, suddenly sounding worried.

“No, I doubt it. May I see him a moment?”

Clara passed the doctor the sleeping baby. Jules stirred a little during the transfer before settling back to sleep with a wide, openmouthed yawn. Dr. Peterson cradled him in one arm while his other hand gently examined the baby, poking and prodding. Jules whimpered a little at the treatment, once again threatening to wake.

“I think it may just be colic,” he said after a moment. “Many babies have it. There’s an elixir that might help if you are interested.”

Clara opened her mouth to answer, but Doc cut her off. “No thanks,” he said curtly. “We’ll simply wait until he outgrows it.”

The former teacher turned to her husband, aghast. “Emmett, I think--”

Doc caught her eyes and shook his head once, firmly, before turning back to the doctor. “Thanks for your assessment.”

“You’re welcome.” Dr. Peterson handed Clara back the baby, collected his jacket, and returned to the church service. As soon as the door was closed, Clara turned to address her husband.

“Emmett, why not?”

“Yeah, Doc, why not?” Marty echoed. “If it lets Jules sleep at night, that means we get to sleep through the night. I dunno about you, but I can’t take this much longer.”

Doc shook his head again. “You’ll just have to endure,” he said. “I’m not going to allow our son to be drugged,” he added, looking at Clara. “God knows what’s in so-called ‘patent medicines’ now. Those things often contained weighty doses of alcohol, which are unsafe for children to consume -- especially babies.”

Clara blinked, taken aback by this explanation. “Perhaps it is simply a home medicinal brew,” she said.

“I doubt it. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll do some research and see what I can find that could help him sleep. Something safe,” he emphasized. “But I’m not going to allow the medicines of the time to drug our son simply so we can get some rest. The doctors now have no idea how dangerous that practice is. I do.”

Marty grudgingly saw that Doc had a point. He signed, lowering the handkerchief again. His arm was already getting sore keeping it up there. “Then until you figure this out, Doc, I think I’ll stay out in the lab. I’m getting tired of being tired.”

“That’s fine, but not tonight,” Doc said. “We need to keep an eye on you and that bump.”

Marty made a face, already envisioning yet another night of sketchy rest. The door to the nave once more opened, and a boy of perhaps twelve stuck his head inside the small room. “Are you gonna get ‘im christened t’day?” the kid asked, pointing to Jules. “They’re ready, if you are.”

Doc and Clara looked at each other. “Yes,” the former said after a moment. “We’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’ll stay back here, if that’s all right,” Marty said, not feeling up to the stares he would no doubt get if he returned to the other room.

But Doc shook his head. “You can’t,” he said. “Not if you’re going to be his godfather. You need to be there for the ceremony.”

Marty wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the job Doc and Clara wanted to bestow on him. When Doc had asked him about fulfilling that role for the kid, he had first been flattered and agreed. The more he thought about it, though, the more uneasy it made him. He wasn’t entirely sure what was expected of him in the role, aside from the fact that he was supposed to be some kind of spiritual guide to the kid if something ever happened to Doc or Clara. Marty was able to grasp the symbolism of the gesture, too, in that he would help raise Jules if something happened to his parents...and that was a scenario that the teen did not want to think about. Doc, Marty hated to admit to himself, was not so young anymore, and the medical care here was fairly primitive from his twentieth century perspective.

“Are you sure about that?” Marty asked, hoping his friend was just making a general assumption

“Yes,” Clara said decisively.

And so, minutes later, Marty found himself standing at the front of the church with Doc and Clara. Unlike them, however, or the baby, he was the subject of the most intense scrutiny, perhaps because he had to keep one hand on the handkerchief and keep a pressure on that to stop the cut from oozing blood down the side of his face. He realized, too, halfway though the ceremony, that the area around his right eye was starting to feel funny -- puffy and swollen. He wondered if he was going to get a black eye out of this and smiled humorously at the idea, imagining how that would sound to people...or at least those who wouldn’t already know what had happened.

Marty couldn’t help but feel some of the blame on his injury rested not on his shoulders, or even on Doc who had apparently pushed him (unintentionally) off the seat. No, the blame for this went directly to the tiny person in the white gown who was getting water poured over his head. Little baby Jules. He was the one who had made him tired enough to fall asleep in church in the first place. He was the reason they were in church at all today, without a good excuse to skip. And he was the reason Marty had to stand here in front of most of Hill Valley with a bloody handkerchief pressed to his forehead.

Yet even with the resentment building in him. Marty found himself promising to guide and protect Jules Martin Brown, should anything happen to his parents.

The irony did not escape the teen.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, with Jules settled down for a nap after his active morning, Clara Brown slipped down the first floor hallway towards Marty’s bedroom. When they had returned from church earlier in the day, her husband’s friend had gone to his room to put a cold cloth on his injury, hoping to cut the swelling down. Nothing had been heard from him in the past three hours.

The door was closed, nothing but silence audible from within. Clara listened a moment, her ear to the wood, before grasping the knob and gently easing the door open. The shades were drawn over the windows, but some late winter daylight still slipped through and provided enough illumination for her to see inside without a problem.

Marty, she saw, was lying flat on his back on his bed, arms folded across his chest, a cold,damp rag covering his eyes. Clara crossed the floor quietly, her skirts rustling, and reached out to remove the rag from his face. She winced a little at what she saw. The place where he had collided with the wooden pew had stopped bleeding hours before, during the ride back to the house, but had since swelled into a tender red bump. Meanwhile, the area around his right eye had turned black and blue -- a black eye.

Marty did not seem to notice her presence. He sighed softly, not opening his eyes as Clara stared at him, and rolled onto his left side. The former teacher soaked the washrag in the bowl of water at his washstand, wrung it out, then tried to replace it over the bruised area and eye, a more awkward process now that Marty was on his side. He stirred at her touch, turning his head and opening his eyes halfway.

“What?” he mumbled.

“Nothing,” Clara said softly. “I was just trying to refresh the compress. Supper won’t be for a couple more hours yet.”

“Oh.” His eyes fell closed again. Clara settled the compress down on his bump and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She sighed as she stood in the hall, something bothering her.

After checking on Jules, still sleeping soundly in his crib, she pulled on her coat and left the house to cross the lawn. In one hand she clutched a small device that Emmett had modified from the future. He had called it a “walkie-talkie” and it had been something salvaged from the wreck of his time machine many months back. It was the size of a small box, a bit weighty, but had the fascinating power of transmitting sounds short distances. By setting one of the devices in the same room as the baby, Clara could monitor him from a separate room. Emmett had called it a “baby monitor,” and told her that the idea had not originated with him, that it would be somewhat common in the future time where he was from. Clara didn’t care; she found the device marvelous and thought her husband even more of a genius for cobbling it together here.

When she reached the barn, she found the door locked. Emmett, she knew, had some strange ideas about privacy when it came to his workspace. It seemed a bit silly to her, as they were not prone to having unexpected visitors. She knocked hard on the door for a good minute before she finally heard footsteps move her way. Following the sound of bolts sliding back, the door opened and her husband stood in the doorway. He looked tired, slightly frazzled, and his workclothes were already stained with smears of soot here and there.

“Is supper ready so soon?” he asked, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

“No,” she said. “Not for another hour or so yet. “ She stepped inside the barn and closed the door against the cold wind. “What are you working on?”

“I’m trying to see what’s gone wrong with the swing sling. I think I’ve narrowed it down to a loose gear. Where’s the baby?”

“Napping, thank goodness.” Clara set the cumbersome “baby monitor” down on one of the worktables. “Emmett, I’m worried about Marty.”

Emmett had been about to turn back to his project, lying in pieces on one of the tables nearby. At the statement, however, he turned back around and gave his wife his full attention. “Why? What’s happened? Has he slipped into a coma?”

“No, no. I was just in his room, checking on him, and he woke up for a moment. I wouldn’t be terribly concerned with his napping the last several hours. Goodness knows I would like to do the same.” She sighed wistfully at the idea.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Clara hesitated, trying to articulate what she felt. “He has just seemed rather quiet since Jules was born, as if something is preoccupying him.”

“If he’s quiet, I’m sure it’s because he’s just tired,” Emmett said. “That’s not anything abnormal. I suspect he may perk up a bit by staying out here at night.” He returned to his worktable and picked up a tool, bending over for a close look at the components that were exposed. Clara regarded it a moment with faint curiosity before looking back to her husband.

“You don’t think he’s jealous of the baby, do you?”

“Jealous?” Emmett looked up again, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why would Marty be jealous of the baby?”

“Oh, I don’t know.... I’ve seen him looking at Jules sometimes, and he does not look...happy.” Said aloud, it sounded like a weak bit of reasoning, even to Clara’s own ears.

“Clara, I’m sure he’s simply exhausted, nothing more. Marty wouldn’t be jealous of our son. There’s no logical rational for it. Besides,” he added, “I haven’t seen him truly happy since before we arrived here. He’s still homesick.”

“I--I suppose.” Clara still could not shake the feeling, however. She pushed it out of her mind for the moment and took a more careful look around the room. “How is that other project coming along? The time machine?”

“Slowly...but I haven’t had much time to spare, you know.”

“I know,” Clara said. “You’ve been a wonderful provider and help.” She paused a moment. “Perhaps Marty is feeling put out because you haven’t been spending much time on that project.”

Emmett sighed, looking up again. “That can’t be helped if he is,” he said curtly. “I know that Marty is having trouble coping with the circumstances here, but there’s little I can do that I’m not already doing. He’s got to learn to make the best of the situation in the meantime. If he wants to pout and sulk and whine, that’s his problem. I must say that I’m getting a little tired of having to listen to it, though.”

Clara blinked at the tone in her husband’s voice. “Are you angry with him?” she asked tentatively.

Emmett sunk down on a stool set beside the worktable. He looked even more exhausted for a moment. “No,” he said. “I’m not angry. I suppose I’m just frustrated. There’s only so much I can do, Clara.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ve been worrying about that kid from the moment I landed here, before he even decided to drop in and pick me up. Marty is stubborn when he wants to be. I think if he simply changed his perspective on the current circumstances, he would feel a little better. He’s focusing too much on the negative, and that could drive anyone crazy.”

Clara stepped over to her husband and slipped an arm around his back, rubbing the back of his neck with her fingers. He felt as tense as a statue under her fingertips. “You have been a good friend to him, Emmett,” she said, her voice soft but her tone firm. “Both of you have had to cope with problems that no mortal should ever face. I admit, though, that I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad that you ended up here, in this time and place...but I’m very sorry that neither of you can leave. I know you must miss your home, too.”

Emmett shrugged, slipping one arm around his wife’s waist. “I do, at times,” he admitted. “But there are a great number of things here that I love.” He turned his head and kissed Clara on the cheek.

“You only love me that much?” she asked, peering coyly at her husband.

Emmett smiled, some of the fatigue slipping away from his face. “Well, maybe a little more than that....”

A moment later, a raspy cry broke the spell. Clara stepped out of her husband’s embrace and turned her head towards the baby monitor. She sighed, slightly annoyed by the timing of the interruption. “Drat, I think he’s hungry.”

Emmett made his own soft sound of regret. “It’s almost as if he knows,” he said ominously. He gave his wife one more kiss. “I’ll be out of here within half an hour.”

“All right, dear.” Clara collected the monitor and hurried out of the barn, across the lawn to the house. The baby’s cry was stronger now, more annoyed that he had not yet been tended to. Clara reached the back door, turned the knob...and it refused to budge. She twisted it a different way. It didn’t move.

“Drat!” she said again, annoyed. The door must have been ready to lock behind her when she left.

Jules continued to cry, the sound making Clara more anxious. She hated hearing her baby upset or in distress. Clutching the monitor against her chest, she hurried around to the front of the house via the porch, and tried the front door. It, too, was locked. Feeling increasingly distraught, Clara went over to one of the windows of Marty’s bedroom and rapped hard on the glass. When that did not provoke an immediate response, she tried again, tapping the band of her wedding ring against the surface to amplify the sound.

Marty’s face peeked through the curtains a moment later, a look of groggy confusion on his face. “I’m locked out,” Clara said loudly, over the cries of her son from the device. “Can you let me inside?”

Marty nodded once, disappearing from view. A moment later, Clara heard the front door open and she eagerly hurried that way. Marty stood in the doorway watching her approach, his clothes and hair rumpled from his afternoon of napping. In the late afternoon light of day, the bump and his black eye looked even worse. “What happened?” he asked.

“I went out to see Emmett in the barn, and the door locked behind me,” Clara explained, hurrying inside and following the sound of her baby’s cry. “Then Jules started to cry...I’m sorry, Marty.”

Marty shrugged as he closed the door and twisted the bolt back into place. “Whatever,” he said flatly, following her as she cut through the parlor to reach the dining room. “That kid’s always crying. You and Doc have gotta do something about it.”

Clara set the monitor device down on the dining room table and bent down over the crib where the baby lay tangled amid blankets, his face red from the effort of his wails. “He is a baby, Marty,” she said. “This is his only way of communication right now.”

“Yeah, well, it’s lousy.”

Clara deliberately changed the subject as she lifted up Jules and began to sway, trying to soothe him. Almost immediately, his crying tapered a bit. “How does your head feel?”

Marty reached up to touch his bump, wincing as he did so. “It hurts,” he said curtly. “How does it look? It feels all swollen around there.”

“You’ve got a black eye. Your bump is rather colorful, too. I’m sure the swelling will be down by tomorrow.”

“The black eye won’t go away any time soon, though,” Marty said darkly. He sighed, raking a hand back through his sleep mussed hair. “It’s so humiliating...half the town saw what happened.”

Clara hid a smile at the memory, though at the time she had been quite frightened. “Well, I’m sure they will forget. No one will have the insensitivity to mention it to you.”

“Maybe not, but they’ll be thinking about it and talking about it behind my back.” He shrugged, suddenly indifferent. “Well, whatever. It’s not like I really care what anyone here thinks of me.”

Clara pursed her lips together as she walked around the dining room table with the baby, who was swiftly calming down. “Marty, I know that Emmett doesn’t agree with me, but you should get out and make some friends your own age.”

“You’re right, Clara,” Marty said. “Doc doesn’t agree with you about that. So I can’t. And he’s right -- it could screw up a lot of things.”

Clara pressed her lips together harder. She hated seeing a young man of Marty’s age be so reclusive. Based on what Emmett had told her, she knew that it wasn’t like him. “I think Emmett worries too much about those matters,” she said.

Marty lifted his shoulders in another weary shrug. “Do you think you could make me some of that tea for headaches and stuff?” he asked.

The change of subject threw Clara a moment, but she smiled. “Certainly. Can you take him a moment? I don’t think he’ll cry if someone is holding him.”

“I guess.” The young man’s tone was void of the slightest bit of enthusiasm.

Clara passed him Jules, reminding him to support the baby’s head. The moment the child came into his hands, Marty’s posture grew ramrod stiff. He looked at Clara, his expression uncertain. “I’m not sure what to do.”

“Just walk him around the room,” the former teacher said. She left Marty in the dining room, slowly beginning to circle the table with the whimpering baby.

In the kitchen, she had just poured a mug full of hot water from the stove when Emmett reached the back door. He rattled the knob, trying to peer through the window set in the door. Clara set the kettle down and hurried to open it for him. “Sorry,” she apologized at once. “I think the lock stuck when I left the house to see you.”

“That’s all right,” Emmett said as he came in, nonplussed. “Where’s the baby?”

“Marty has him right now, in the other room.” Clara headed over to one of the shelves, searching for the proper canister of tea.

“Marty?” Emmett’s tone betray surprise, as Marty had not been very interested in Jules since he was born.

“He wanted some tea for his headache, and someone needed to hold the baby or he would start crying again.” Clara located the tin she wanted and removed it from the shelf before turning to face her husband. “Emmett, I think Marty needs to get out of the house more.”

“What do you mean?” There was a trace of suspicion to the words.

“Well, he is eighteen, isn’t he? I daresay it is not very fun for him to be with us all the time. When my brother was his age, he was doing all sorts of things: going to dances, going away to school, spending time with a circle of chums--”

“Clara, you know Marty can’t do that. We’ve discussed this. I don’t know why you’re so insistent on bringing this up time and again.”

Clara frowned as she spooned the proper amount if tea from the tin into the mug of hot water. “I believe he will feel better spending time with young people his age.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Emmett said immediately. “Where Marty’s from, kids his age...they’re still very much kids. They don’t have a large list of responsibility -- school, perhaps, maybe family obligations or a part-time job. Society calls them ‘teenagers.’ Here, they’re...well, they’re young adults. They’ve got many more responsibilities, and society treats them as capable adults. They can carry guns. They can drink alcohol. They can have children of their own, get married without parental consent, and get a job without any sort of formal education. It’s absolutely different. I don’t think Marty would really fit in with anyone his age here, even if it was advisable for him to go out and make friends of his own.”

“Perhaps, but I saw him performing last July on that stage, and dancing with that young woman. He looked happy, Emmett. He didn’t look as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.”

Emmett’s eyes narrowed in sudden scrutiny at his wife. “Did he ask you to talk to me?”

Clara shook her head as she vigorously stirred the tea. “No, he did not. He seemed to think that any persuasion on my part would be foolhardy.”

“And he’s correct. Clara, I don’t think you realize how dangerous our presence can be here. Especially for Marty -- he has direct ancestors living in town right now.”

Clara sighed, more than a bit sick of these tired arguments her husband would throw at her. “Be that as it may, this is no way for a young man of his age to live.”

Emmett rubbed his forehead, as if he had a headache. “I think we’re all in agreement about that. I’m doing everything I can to rectify the situation and get him back home, but it just takes time.”

A flood of guilt suddenly washed over Clara. She noticed again how tired Emmett looked, recalling that not only was he up at night as much as she was, he was working full days in town. Not to mention he had been trying to help her around the house, especially in the first week after Jules had been born and she had been too sore to do much of anything.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know you are doing the best you can. I just think, perhaps, in the meantime--”

“No,” Emmett said, a distinct edge to his voice with the word. He held out his hand. “I’ll take that out to Marty. I want to see how his bump looks.”

Clara passed her husband the steaming mug of tea and watched him turn and step through the swinging door that led into the dining room. She sighed as she turned back to the stove, already trying to figure out a way to convince both Emmett and Marty that socialization for the young man could be a benefit here.

And she still had the nagging, uneasy feeling that Marty did not entirely like the new baby.

* * *

“Emmett,” Clara said a few minutes later, as they headed up the stairs to their room, “there’s something I would like to ask of you.”

Doc smiled in the semidarkness. There was nothing, he thought, that he could deny his wife tonight. Not on her birthday. “What’s that?” he asked, slipping an arm around her waist.

“There is a social at the church on Saturday night.”

“Oh, yes, I think I remember hearing about that from a few people in town. You want to go? I don’t see a lot of harm in that, though I don’t think we should bring the baby.”

“No, I agree with you on that. I think Jules will be too much of a handful, and that’s a long drive at night in the cold weather. I do not need to go, but I think Marty should -- by himself, without us.”

Doc grimaced at the suggestion as they walked past their son’s bedroom. At least he seemed to be sleeping peacefully for the moment. “I don’t like that idea.”

“Why?” Clara turned to look at him as they crossed the threshold of their bedroom. Doc closed the door behind him.

“You know why, Clara. We’ve been over this before.” And over...and over....

“He needs to get out, Emmett. He looked so glum tonight.”

“He’s glum because he’s homesick. It won’t make any difference whatsoever if he socializes with the people in town. Believe me.”

The inventor wished she’d drop the subject, especially tonight, but Clara seemed oblivious to his feelings. “If you think that, there should be no harm in him going. He can bring the cake I’ll bake for the social and give our regards to everyone. It’s much better than none of us going at all.”

“Clara--” Doc stopped abruptly. He didn’t want anything to ruin this night, especially not right now. He sighed, glancing down at the floorboards. “All right, fine. He can go this time. If he wants to, that is. But I don’t really like the idea.”

Clara smiled, her eyes gleaming in the light of the single oil lamp that Doc held. “Thank you, Emmett,” she said sweetly -- and then, to Doc’s delight, she stepped forward and began to demonstrate just how very thankful she was.

* * *

Afterward, Doc was content to simply lay in the bed and stare at his wife as she gradually drifted off to sleep, her long dark curls hanging loose and spread across the pillow. Listening to her deepening breath, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest in the moonlight that filtered through the window curtains, he felt completely at peace. The worries that normally dogged during all wakeful minutes faded to a dull roar, no more troublesome than the street noise used to be to him when he lived in the garage on JFK.

He closed his eyes with a sigh, savoring the silence. Jules hadn’t stirred once since he had fallen asleep in Marty’s room during dinner. Perhaps he would finally be able to get some rest tonight.

“Doc! Hey, Doc!”

The voice from outside had to be his imagination. There was no possible reason why Marty would be yelling for him outside as if the house was on fire.

“Fire, Doc! Fire in your lab!”

Fire? Doc’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, wondering if he had heard right. Marty’s cry repeated itself.

The scientist threw back the blankets and leapt out of bed, striding over to the window that faced the back yard and the lab. Outside, he saw a faint orange glow flickering from within the lab’s lower windows.

“Great Scott!”

He turned and started to run, not stopping to wake his wife with the news.

Doc didn’t remember how he got from the bedroom to the back yard, and was only peripherally aware of the cold night air against his bare skin. He was only focused on the idea of the flames consuming what progress he had made towards building a new time machine, as well as destroying the few inventions he had crafted to use in this time.

“What happened?” he demanded when he saw Marty, who had stopped short of the porch stairs.

The teen’s eyes widened as big as saucers as Doc burst outside and he suddenly looked towards the ground. “I, uh, I….jeez, Doc!”

The inventor paid his response little mind, running across the frosty lawn towards the lab. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. He spun around. “Marty! Where are the keys?”

Marty was lingering near the porch for some reason, his gaze still fixed towards the ground. “They’re inside,” he called back, not moving. “The door’s locked?”

“Yes! It locks automatically when you leave! I told you that, remember?”

Marty did not answer the question. “Uh, Doc, are you aware that you’re completely na—“

“Damn!” Doc swore, not letting him finish. He looked through the window, realizing there was only one thing to do. “Go to the pump, fill the bucket with water, and bring it over here.”

“Right.”

Marty hurried off to take care of the chore, keeping his head down. While Doc waited for the teen’s aid, he pried a large stone from the frozen mud nearby and lobbed it through the window. There was a terrific crash of glass, and a brief billow of smoke. He turned around to check on his friend’s progress. “Hurry, Marty!”

Marty finished filling the bucket at the pump and ran it over in halting steps, sloshing water down the front of his clothes in his haste. His eyes were fixed on the closed and locked door. “Doc,” he said when he was no more than six feet away, “don’t you think it’d be a good idea to--”

“You’ll need to climb in through the window and open the door,” Doc said, cutting him off. “You’re smaller than me. I won’t be able to fit through the space.”

Marty dropped the bucket with a thud at his feet, splashing water all over his pants, and let out a nervous laugh, the reaction seeming out of place to Doc. Perhaps it was a form of mild hysteria. “Doc,” he said, looking off to the side, “I can’t take you remotely seriously right now.”

“And why not?” the scientist asked, his mind still occupied by the crackling fire nearby.

“Because you’re-- you’re-- Look at you!”

Doc glanced down and only then realized what had been obvious to Marty the moment he had stepped outside. “Oh,” he said mildly, too upset about the fire to be very embarrassed about his current exposed state. Besides, it was simply the human body, which was nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes, well, when my lab is on fire, getting dressed doesn’t seem to be very important.” He glanced down, noticing a quilt crumpled on the lawn, no doubt brought out by Marty and discarded in the emergency. “Can you hand me that quilt?”

“Uh, yeah.” Marty hastily retrieved it, stopping a couple feet away from the inventor to hold it out to him. He kept his eyes averted from Doc, clearly uncomfortable. Doc wrapped the blanket nonchalantly around his waist, tucking in the edge firmly so it would not slip free.

“All right, Marty, I need you to go in through the window,” he said, once that was taken care of. “Let me in the door and I’ll do the rest.”

Marty glanced at him, his eyes flickering down in a quick scan, and nodded. He stepped over to the window and peered inside for a moment, then grasped the windowsill, took a couple small hops, and boosted himself up. A moment later the door opened. Doc wasted little time in charging inside, wielding the bucket of water. He saw enough to see that a part of the floor and one of his worktables was aflame, the fire starting to spread to the wall behind it. Then he dumped the bucket of water over the affected area, handed it to Marty, and ordered him to refill it.

It took four more buckets of water before the flames were extinguished. Coughing from the smoke now choking the air in the lab, Doc darted around the room to open all the windows, hoping to clear the air as fast as possible. He looked at Marty through watering eyes, the teen hovering in the doorway.

“What in the name of Albert Einstein happened, Marty?” he demanded.

Marty sighed, resting his forehead against the doorjamb. “I heard a noise out here, and went to check it out with the lamp. Something ran over my foot” -- he shuddered from the memory -- “and it startled the hell outta me, so I dropped the lamp, it broke, and suddenly fire was all over the floor. Then I took off to get you.”

Doc walked to another area of the lab, undamaged but still reeking of smoke, and took a moment to light a new lamp. He brought it over to the sight of the fire and held it up for a look at the damage.

The worktable near the door would be a total loss. The wood was charred ebony and still steaming a little in spots. The same could be said of the floorboards before the table. The metal skeleton of the lamp that had caused the fire in the first place lay amid the worst of the damage, the glass casing half melted from the heat of the flames. There were scorch marks on the walls, but the scientist thought those were fairly superficial. Several of his in-progress projects -- including some of the tubes and workings for the new time machine -- were ruined. Doc reached out to touch one. He quickly drew his hand back with a hiss of pain as the hot metal burned his fingertips.

“I’m really sorry, Doc.”

Doc looked down at the table and shook his head, clenching his teeth together in frustration. “Dammit, Marty, you could have burned down the entire lab!”

“I said I was sorry. It was an accident. It’s not my fault you have mice or rats in here.”

The inventor turned sharply to the left, hands braced on his hips, and paced to the other side of the room, away from his friend, hoping to vent some of his irritation. “You’ve got to be careful when you’re out here. Oil lamps and candles could destroy an entire building in a few minutes. The time machine is out here in the cellar. All the parts we’ve made so far for the machine are stored out here!”

“Doc, I get the idea. Look, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to do?”

Doc closed his eyes and shook his head, his back still to his friend. “You’re not staying out here anymore. That’s it.”

There was a brief moment of silence. “Fine,” Marty said flatly. The scientist heard his footsteps move away -- and then, without warning, turn and come back into the room. “You know, this whole thing is Jules’ fault.”

The statement was so ludicrous that Doc couldn’t help but turn to look at his friend. “What?” he asked, thinking he must have not heard Marty correctly.

The teen folded his arms across his chest. “I wouldn’t’ve been out here in the first place if that kid hadn’t been crying every night. And if I hadn’t been out here, there wouldn’t’ve been a fire.”

Doc almost laughed. “Are you trying to tell me that Jules is responsible for this?” he asked incredulously, gesturing to the steaming, blackened table.

“Well, yeah.”

Doc raised both eyebrows. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Yeah, of course you’d defend your son,” Marty muttered, looking down at the floorboards. “Why don’t you just kick me out of the house while you’re at it?”

Doc closed his eyes again and sighed, his head beginning to ache from both the smell of scorched wood and trying to follow Marty’s strange reasoning. “Marty....” he began with as much patience as he could muster.

He was not given a chance to finish. A second later the door to the lab slammed shut with enough force to cause one of the windows to fall shut. Doc opened his eyes and found himself alone in the smokey lab.

What the hell? he wondered, baffled. What the hell is up with that kid?

* * *

As Marty crossed the lawn, his pace close to a run, he fought back a lump in his throat full of angry tears. He hadn’t seen Doc look that pissed off in a while, and his reaction when Marty had blurted out the reason the fire had happened in the first place, due to Jules, had made him feel sick. Doc had immediately defended his son -- just as Marty had thought he would.

Of course! Jules is his blood family, his son. I’m just a friend from his old life...that’s all.

When he got to the back door, he reached out to grasp the knob -- and gasped at the bolt of hot pain that suddenly creased his palm. Removing his hand from the cold metal, he turned his palm towards his face and saw a deep cut that stretched from just under his right index finger to the base of his pinkie. The palm of his hand was literally dripping blood.

“Shit,” he breathed, feeling faint at the sight. He must have sliced his hand on a shard of glass in the window frame. He raised his left hand and looked at it, wondering if it had sustained similar damage, but it appeared to be unscathed.

The back door abruptly opened, and he found himself face to face with Clara. Doc’s wife blinked, startled, at the sight of Marty standing on the porch just a foot away. Unlike her husband, who had left the house stark naked, she’d had the presence of mind to put on some clothes. Her robe was firmly closed up to the nape of her neck. “Marty!” she said. “What’s going on? I thought I heard shouting.”

“There was a fire in the lab,” Marty mumbled, glancing down at his cut palm. “It’s out now.”

Clara frowned, and then noticed the wound. “Oh, goodness, you’re hurt!” she exclaimed. “Come in, let me have a look at it.”

Marty allowed himself to be brought into the warm kitchen and plopped down in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He held his right hand out, palm up and cupped slightly in an effort to keep his blood from spilling onto the floor. Clara hurriedly slipped a clean dishtowel on the table and told him to set his hand down. Marty did so, a feeling of weakness hitting him again as he looked at the cut in the light of a single lamp on the kitchen table. It looked so deep and...how was it possible for it to bleed that much?

“I’ll be right back, “Clara said, her voice steady and calm. “Don’t move from that spot.”

“Okay,” Marty said softly. He averted his eyes to something else less gory and tried to ignore the warm dampness and dull throbbing in his right palm.

Clara returned a couple minutes later, a washcloth in one hand and a small bowl of what appeared to be water in the other. She set it down on the table, and took Marty’s wounded hand. “Let’s clean this up,” she said, steering his hand to the bowl and submerging it into the cold liquid.

“Jesus Christ!” Marty cried, his cut suddenly burning and stinging. He blinked back tears of pain from his eyes. “What the hell is that, acid?”

“Salt water,” Clara said, keeping a firm grasp of his wrist and not allowing him to pull free and remove it from the bowl. “It should sterilize the wound and wash it out.”

“Son of a bitch, it hurts,” Marty muttered, his mouth dry. He bit his lip hard, hoping to distract himself from the burning pain of the cut.

Just as he was starting to sweat a little, Clara allowed him to raise his hand out of the water. The blood had tainted the liquid to a dull shade of pink. She dabbed the washcloth in the water, and then began to run the wet fabric over the deep cut. Marty clenched his teeth together hard to avoid yelling and cursing from the serious discomfort.

In the middle of this, the back door opened and Doc came into the kitchen. He was still clad in nothing more than the quilt knotted around his waist, soot smeared on his exposed skin. He looked annoyed, but at the sight of his wife and Marty at the table he suddenly frowned, concerned. “What happened?” he asked, closing the door.

“Marty cut his hand rather deeply,” Clara said. The teen groaned softly as she continued to probe at the cut with the salt water-soaked washcloth. “I’m getting it cleaned up now, but I think we may want the doctor to take a look at it in the morning.” She blinked, frowning. “Emmett, what on earth are you wearing?”

“A quilt.” Doc offered no further explanation. He leaned over for a look at Marty’s injury and made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “He must have cut it on the window glass.” He looked up at the teen. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“Didn’t notice it until I got to the house,” Marty managed to say.

“Emmett, what happened? Marty said there was a fire in the lab....?”

“There was,” Doc said. He sat down in the chair to Marty’s left. “Marty dropped an oil lamp on the floor out there when a vermin startled him.”

Clara’s eyes darted up to Marty’s face before returning back to her husband’s. “How much damage was there?”

“It could have been worse -- much worse. A few things I was working on -- for the new time machine -- are ruined, as well as one of the worktables. The floorboards sustained some damage where the lamp fell, and there’s some superficial damage that shouldn’t be too difficult to fix up. Marty won’t be staying out there any more, however.”

Marty’s cheeks flushed a little at that reminder. He looked down, studying the pattern of the china bowl that held the bloody saltwater. “Clara, are you almost done?” he asked.

“Just about. Emmett, can you fetch me a clean towel and some bandages from the first aid kit?”

“All right. Where is Jules?”

“Still asleep, last I checked.”

Doc got up from the table and left the room. As soon as they were alone again, Clara turned her dark eyes on Marty and gave him a faint, concerned smile. “Are you all right, Marty?”

“I’m fine,” Marty said flatly. “Everything’s fine.”

“Emmett will settle down...I know he may seem angry with you now, but--”

“Clara, forget it. I know that. I’m fine, all right? Will you stop asking me?”

Clara pursed her lips together. “Certainly,” she said softly, and changed the subject suddenly. “Emmett has agreed that you may go to town this Saturday night.”

“And do what?” Marty asked, feeling unreasonably anxious with that statement. Was he being kicked out, now?

“There’s a social in the church. It will allow you time to meet some others your age and make friends.”

“Forget it,” Marty said flatly. “I don’t want to go. It won’t do any good.”

“Now, Marty--”

“Look, Clara, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Really. But I’m telling you: It won’t make one bit of difference. I don’t know those people. I shouldn’t know those people. And even if I did go, Doc would probably get mad at me for doing something I shouldn’t be doing. What’s the point of trying? What’s the point?”

Clara sighed softly. She withdrew the washcloth and gently turned his palm towards the lamplight, examining it. “I think we’ve done all we can right now with that,” she said, dropping the matter. “It’s terribly deep. Dr. Peterson may need to close it up.”

“Great.” Marty grabbed the towel that Clara had tossed onto the tabletop when he had first sat down and dried his hand off, being extra careful in touching the cut. Already, blood was oozing back to the surface, turning the teen’s stomach. He had a feeling he’d have a scar there for the rest of his life....or at least until Doc undid things for him if he ever finished the time machine.

“Press the towel on the cut,” Clara advised, standing and collecting the bowl and damp and bloodied washcloth. “That should stem some of the bleeding. Emmett should be back in a moment so we can put a bandage on it.”

Marty did as she suggested, trying to ignore the deep, aching throb of the wound. Just as his black eye and bump from the incident in the church were gone, here was yet another thing for the townspeople to grill him over and stare.

And, Marty realized with a deeper chill, this was much worse. He held up his right hand before his eyes, keeping the towel pressed to his palm with his left hand, and moved his fingers around. They flexed, but it hurt to do so; he winced, both in pain and in anxiety.

Oh, God....what if this screws up my guitar skills?

What if he had nicked a tendon or a nerve? Doc had mentioned to him once, when Marty had wanted to know about his future, that he had apparently gotten involved in a drag race and busted his hand, which had caused him to give up on his music. (Whether by choice or by circumstance Marty was not sure.) In this time, such an injury as nicked tendons or nerves could have some serious consequences and probably be almost impossible to fix.

“Perhaps you should set your head down,” Clara said, obviously alarmed as Marty’s face drained of color from these thoughts.

“And hold your hand up above your head,” Doc added, catching his wife’s advice. Marty looked over at his arrival. His friend had swapped the quilt for a robe and now held the tin box that contained most of their medical supplies, as well as a couple dark colored towels. “It should slow the bleeding and help with the shock.”

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Marty lay his head down on the table, pillowing it on the crock of his left arm, and raised his right hand into the air, as if he was volunteering to be called on in class. Doc grasped his right wrist and lowered his arm down until the elbow bumped the tabletop. Marty grimaced at yet another bruise on his poor body. “Sorry,” Doc said, catching the expression. “Hold your hand there, palm up.”

Marty followed the directions, watching as Doc opened the first aid kit and pulled out a roll of gauze and some cotton padding. The scientist next removed the towel that had been soaking up the fresh blood and had a look at the injury. His forehead puckered with scrutiny.

“That does look deep,” he said. “How does it feel?”

“As good as it looks.”

“Are you having any tingling or numbness in your fingers? Can you move them for me?”

Marty wiggled all of his digits. “They feel fine, but it hurts to flex anything on that hand now.”

“Hopefully that will pass. Hold still, now.”

Doc tore off some of the cotton padding, pressed it to the cut, and wound the gauze around the hand several times until the bandage was snug enough to hurt a little. Marty flexed his fingers again after Doc had tied it off and looked at the swath of white layers now wound around his hand.

“When we go into town, I’ll have Dr. Peterson take a look at it,” Doc said as he replaced the supplies in the kit. “That may need stitches.”

“They do that now?” Marty asked skeptically, raising his head up as he allowed his bandaged hand to drop to the table.

“Yes. You don’t want to leave that open for infection, do you?”

“No,” Marty said. He glanced down at his hand and stood, his legs a little wobbly. “I’m gonna go back to bed now, unless you want me to help you clean up the lab or something.”

“That can wait until tomorrow,” Doc said.

“Fine. Good night, then.”

Once in his room, Marty took a few minutes to change, the clothes on his back reeking of smoke from the fire and soaked all down the front from running the buckets of water between the pump and the lab. It was a bit awkward with his right hand out of commission. Then he carefully extinguished the lamp at his bedside and crawled under the covers. He lay flat on his back, a headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes in time with the hot throbbing of his cut, waiting for his body heat to warm up the blankets so it felt less like he was sleeping on sheets of ice.

There was one thing, though. It was quiet. Astonishingly so.

Amazing, he thought, closing his eyes. The kid isn’t crying, for once.

Just minutes later, however, he was forced to take back those words. He opened his eyes and groaned, pulling the spare pillow over his head. As if Jules hadn’t done enough already, Marty thought, annoyed, wishing again vehemently that the kid had never been born.

* * *

Doc was having to exercise every bit of self control he had not to throttle Marty as the teenager sat blithely babbling about time machines. With the medical doctor so very close, within the same earshot as his so-called friend, there was nothing he could really say or do to stop him. It was the alcohol, Doc knew, but he also suspected that the teen was taking a perverse delight in spilling these secrets.

Stop it, Doc thought, leveling a gaze at the kid and meeting his eye. Marty blinked once, slowly, his gaze one of pure guilelessness. The scientist looked over at Dr. Peterson and was relieved to see that the man was paying the patient little mind. Instead he was leaning over Marty’s hand, the threaded needle in one hand, preparing to begin the procedure.

Doc glanced at Marty again, wondering what else was going to come out of his mouth now. The teen had turned his attention to the doctor and was watching the needle as it plunged into his skin. His eyes went wide and his face suddenly turned the color of pea soup. He opened his mouth, drawing in breath to speak, his gaze fixated on his hand. Before he could say a word, however, his eyes suddenly rolled back and he started to fall forward.

“Catch him!” Dr. Peterson said sharply. Doc quickly raised his free hand and slipped it before Marty’s chest, effectively stopping his forward momentum out of the chair. He pressed his friend back into the seat. Marty flopped back, as limp as the proverbial rag doll, nearly sliding out of the chair. Doc had to maintain a most awkward position then, keeping his left hand firm around the teen’s right wrist to prevent any movement to interfere with the doctor’s work while gripping the front of Marty’s shirt to hold him in the seat and keep him from sliding to the floor.

“Is there any way we can stop for a moment?” the scientist grunted through his teeth.

“One moment,” Dr. Peterson said, sounding completely unfazed. After a minute, he got up from his stool and moved a chair from a few feet away. They propped Marty’s feet up on it, and, though Doc thought that it was an awfully uncomfortable position to be in, the teen didn’t seem to be in quite as much risk of falling out of the chair as he had moments earlier.

“Can you keep your hand on his wrist?” the doctor asked, returning to his stool. “I don’t want to risk him moving out of the way when I work.”

“Sure,” Doc agreed. He glanced over at his friend. Marty’s head was flung back, neck awkwardly arched over the back of the chair. The scientist didn’t like the ashen look to his face. “Will he be all right?”

“Oh, I think so. I’ve seen it happen before. Some people cannot tolerate viewing their own injuries very well. Once I’ve finished, we can try reviving him, but for now I think it’s easier if he is not awake.”

Considering the topics of conversation that Marty had wanted to engage in, Doc tended to agree with that. “Quite so.”

Dr. Peterson worked quickly. Ten minutes later, he had finished stitching up the cut and deftly bandaged it up. “Keep it dry and change the bandages once a day,” he told Doc, who made a note to pass along the directions to Marty. “If it becomes more painful or swollen, let me have a look at it quickly. Apply this salve once a day, when the bandages are changed,” he added, pulling out a small jar of a brown-colored liquid. Doc accepted it, though he didn’t think he’d allow Marty to put the so-called remedy on his healing cut. Most of what went into the medicines of today were simply for placebo effect, at best.

Before he left, Dr. Peterson helped the inventor move Marty to a small pink couch that had remained in the “waiting room” area that Doc had set up after they had all moved into the house. The teen remained unconscious during the brief trip, a matter that gave Doc a bit of concern. The doctor, after checking his pulse and respiration, was confident that he would wake on his own, perhaps in a couple hours, and that the alcohol was likely responsible for his prolonged swoon.

Even so, Doc didn’t think he had a couple hours to wait. It was getting near closing time for the day, and they would have to return back to the house. He didn’t want to make that trip while Marty was still out. In fact, he didn’t think it would be very possible, since there was no room to lie down comfortably in the carriage.

After he had cleaned up the work for the day, Doc wet a washcloth and went over to his friend, wiping it over his face. When that didn’t work immediately, he went into his own first aid kit for the stable and removed a flask of ammonia. He uncorked the bottle, slipped a hand behind Marty’s head, and raised it enough to position his nose directly under the mouth of the bottle.

Marty started to cough a moment later, and his eyes fluttered open. Doc removed the bottle, setting it down and picked up the damp washcloth again. He dabbed at the teen’s forehead and cheeks, hoping that the touch would help revive him even more. Marty groaned, drawing the sound out.

“Ohhh...what happened?”

“You fainted when the doctor started to stitch up your hand,” Doc said briskly. “I think it was for the best, under the circumstances.”

Marty opened his eyes again, raising his uninjured hand to shield them from the daylight that still permeated the room. “Is he done?” he whispered.

“Yes, he finished about half an hour ago. It didn’t take him more than ten minutes to do.” Doc reached over and lifted up Marty’s right hand, lying at his side on the sofa. “See for yourself.”

The teen gazed up at his bandaged hand for a moment, his eyes glassy and dazed. “It still hurts.”

“I imagine it will for a few more days. Can you sit up? We’ve got to get home.”

“It’s not home for me....” Marty managed to sit up after another minute, though his complexion turned peaked all over again. He took the washcloth from Doc’s hand and placed it over his eyes, groaning softly as he leaned forward. “I don’t feel so hot.”

“You’re probably still a bit inebriated from the alcohol,” Doc said. “I don’t know why the doctor wanted to give that to you. He should’ve just let you faint.”

Marty lowered the washrag and looked at the inventor, hurt. “So my comfort isn’t an issue, huh? Glad to know that.”

Doc clicked his tongue as he stood from his couch side crouch. “That’s not what I mean, Marty. I just think you’re going to be quite ill later from that concoction, and it did you no favors in allowing you to say things that you know better than to talk about.”

“Like what?” Marty asked, sounding sullen. “How much I miss Jennifer?”

“Mentioning our origins to the doctor, for one. Thank God he didn’t pay them any mind.”

Marty shrugged, pressing the damp cloth to his forehead. “Whatever. Are we going to leave right now?”

“Let me hitch the horse up and we can be off.”

When Doc returned from that chore, minutes later, he found his friend curled up on the couch, looking miserable. “The room won’t stop spinning,” he moaned softly.

The scientist sighed, annoyed with both the primitive medicine of this era and himself for not putting up a greater protest at allowing Marty to consume the toxic alcoholic mixture. “I’m sorry,” he said. “When we get to the house, you can go to bed and sleep it off. But we’ve got to get there first.”

Doc helped his friend stand, and Marty hung onto him rather heavily on the brief walk outside to the waiting carriage. His balance was off enough that he nearly fell trying to climb into the vehicle, taking the rear seat. They had barely started off before Marty, looking rather green, turned around, leaned over the back of the vehicle and retched up the contents of his stomach. Doc drew the horses to a halt while his friend got sick, reaching over and grabbing the back of the teen’s shirt to ensure he wouldn’t topple out of the buggy.

“Better?” Doc asked gently when Marty finally raised his head.

“No,” Marty whispered. He turned around and slouched low in the seat, his knees level with his head. “Why’d you let me drink that poison?”

Doc laughed once without humor as he flicked the reigns to start the horses forward again. “I tried to warn you, I recall. You said, and I quote, ‘if it’s a choice between downing the gasoline or going without anything, I’d rather deal with this.’”

Marty groaned softly at the reminder.

Doc drove as carefully as he could, doing his best to avoid the potholes and bumps that were common in earthen roads like this. Even so, the ride wasn’t particularly smooth, and Marty was sick again before they came into view of the farmhouse. Doc actually felt sorry for him. He stopped the buggy before the house and nearly had to carry his friend inside. Clara, hearing the commotion, met them in the foyer with a fussy Jules on one hip. Her eyes took in the scene, wide and concerned.

“Goodness, what’s happened now?”

“The doctor had to give Marty stitches in his hand,” Doc explained as he shuffled in, hunched over, one arm clutching his friend’s waist while Marty draped one limp arm around his neck. The teen looked up at Clara, a look of utter misery on his face. “He thought it would be a wise idea to get him intoxicated first with the strongest stuff in the saloon.”

“I’m dying,” Marty whispered, gazing up at her through watery eyes.

“Can you make a cup of ginger tea and bring it to his room?” Doc asked.

“Of course.”

The scientist helped Marty to his room and over to his bed. Marty collapsed onto it with an audible sigh of relief, burying his face in his pillow. “Thanks, Doc,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “You’re one in a zillion....”

Doc sighed as he grabbed hold of Marty’s foot and tugged off one of his boots. “Well, that makes it all worthwhile, then.”

“Sorry for everything,” Marty said softly, slurring his words a little. “Sorry for being here...making your life hard...”

Doc removed his friend’s other boot and set his sock-clad foot gently back on the bed. Marty drew his legs up, curling up into a ball on his side. “It’s not entirely your fault,” the inventor said, reaching for the quilt folded at the foot of the bed and pulling it over the teen.

“You didn’t want me to come back. You told me to go home.”

“And you came back to save my life, which I completely understand. I’m grateful for that.” Doc sat down in the desk chair with another sigh. He looked out the window situated over the desk, at the sun beginning to set on the horizon. “I wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t disregarded my orders.”

Jules started to cry then, the sound distant but still audible. Marty frowned, eyes still closed. “Neither would the baby,” he muttered. “Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Doc massaged his forehead with one hand. “Do you have a problem with Jules?” he asked, thinking of something Clara had mentioned a few weeks earlier.

“No, of course not.” Doc thought he detected a trace of sarcasm in the words.

“You haven’t seemed to interact with him very much.”

“He cries too much...maybe if he didn’t do that and other stuff he wouldn’t be very bad. And maybe if you--” Marty stopped talking suddenly, the change drawing Doc’s attention even more. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he added, just as abruptly, reaching up and covering his eyes with his unbandaged hand. “I feel too sick. Just let it go, Doc, please.”

Doc didn’t want to let the subject drop, however. “Clara mentioned you could be jealous of him.”

Marty shuddered. “I’m not jealous,” he said thickly. He suddenly sat up, his eyes popping wide open. “I’m gonna throw up again.”

The scientist knelt down and pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed. He handed it to Marty, who bent his head down low over it. The sounds of his getting sick echoed loudly in the porcelain bowl, and Doc could not help wincing a little in sympathy. When the latest spasm passed, Marty raised his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, beads of perspiration standing out on his ashen skin. He moved the chamber pot off his lap, to the empty side of the bed, and then fell back on his pillow, groaning softly.

“I’m not jealous,” Doc heard him whisper hoarsely. “I just....” Marty left the sentence unfinished, sighing instead.

“You just what?” the scientist urged.

“I just want to go to sleep.” Marty threw an arm over his eyes and turned his face away from Doc’s side of the bed.

The inventor studied him a moment and sighed. He leaned across the desktop and cradled his head in his hands, not feeling very well himself at the moment. With the lack of conversation, Doc heard Marty’s breathing gradually slow, growing deeper. By the time Clara came in with the requested tea, he was clearly asleep.

“How is he?” she asked softly, glancing over at the bed as she crossed the floor and handed her husband the cup of tea.

“As well as can be expected, I think,” Doc said in a low voice. He set the tea on the night table, opting not to wake his friend right now. “He’ll feel better tomorrow morning.”

“The doctor fixed his cut?”

“Yes. About a dozen stitches. He had barely finished the first one when Marty fainted. I can’t say entirely I blame him. Of course, it makes this situation all the more ridiculous in my opinion, drugging him up with alcohol for no reason. I often miss the medical care of my time the most.”

Clara nodded once, having heard from him before the many marvels that would come in health care over the next hundred years...and beyond. “We’ve been fortunate in that regard, I think,” she said. “So far, none of us have had serious illnesses or injuries.”

“Absolutely,” Doc said without hesitation, reaching over and snaking an arm around his wife’s waist, drawing her close. “I hope that continues. I don’t even want to think about what could happen if any of us needs surgery or has a serious infection. I worry about Jules often, what with the infant mortality rate being so high and no vaccinations available.”

Clara made a soft sound at the back of her throat. “Let’s not borrow trouble, Emmett.” She ran a hand over his hair, stroking it for a moment. Doc leaned against her, closing his eyes, a feeling of love swelling in his chest for his wife.

“It amazes me,” he said softly, changing the subject. “I cannot believe how lucky I am to have you, and to have found you. Have I told you that?”

“Oh, Emmett.” Clara’s tone was soft, filled with affection. “I could say the very same thing.”

Doc opened his eyes and looked at Marty. The teen’s arm was beginning to slip down his face, off his closed eyes, down to his nose “I feel bad for him,” he said softly, though the snores his friend was beginning to emit told him that Marty wasn’t cognizant of their conversation. “Sometimes I feel a little guilty because my time here isn’t as difficult as his.”

“It’s in your perspective, I think,” Clara said, continuing to stroke his hair. “You’re an optimist, Emmett. Marty doesn’t seem to quite have that in him, at least that I’ve seen.”

“Perhaps so. But he wasn’t here when I first arrived. Those first nine months were brutal for both body and soul.”

“I told him last night about getting out on Saturday night,” Clara said. “He wanted no part of it. Perhaps if you spoke to him about it--”

Doc shook his head once, not entirely surprised by Marty’s reaction. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to cajole him into doing something that could put him in danger or jeopardize the world we came from. If he does not want to go, I don’t think there is anything you or I should do but respect his wishes. Truly, Clara. I think it’s for the best.”

“I don’t think it is terribly healthy.”

“Of course it’s not healthy,” Doc said, trying not to raise his voice. “Nothing about this situation is healthy for him. I’m trying as hard as I can to fix things, but I cannot do a thing to speed up the passage of time any more than anyone else can right now. If there was something I thought I could do to help him here, I would, I assure you.”

Marty stirred, his arm falling entirely from his face. Doc watched him, suddenly anxious, as he mumbled something. His eyes remained shut, however, and, after a deep sigh, his respiration continued its slow and restful pattern.

Clara rubbed the back of Doc’s neck, giving it a warm squeeze. “I know you are doing all you can, Emmett,” she said softly, bending down to speak close to his ear. “Do not think for a moment you are not. If you and Marty are content with the situation as it stands now, I won’t say another word about it.”

“Thank you,” Doc said, staring at his friend and hoping that he was as oblivious to their discussion as it looked.

Clara stepped back with a soft sigh as Jules started to cry again from another room. “Supper is almost ready. Should I set aside anything for him?” she added, nodding towards the snoozing Marty.

Doc stood and shook his head. “I doubt he’ll have the stomach for anything until tomorrow.” He collected the chamber pot that Marty had gotten sick in with a little grimace.

Clara filed out of the room and Doc followed her a moment later, closing the door at his back.

* * *

“Emmett, let’s turn back. I don’t need a night out. Really.”

Doc shook his head firmly as they drove out of view of their home, Clara on the seat beside him. His wife had twisted around and was watching the house as it dwindled in size as they grew further away. They finally rounded a bend that cut it off completely from sight.

“No,” he said. “You need this time away, and I think it would only benefit Jules to have this separation as well.”

Clara turned around, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Oh,” she sighed, clasping her hands tightening on her lap. “I don’t know whatever possessed me to let you talk me into this.”

“Actually, my dear, you did...and the more thought I gave the matter, the more I realized that it was a fine idea. Since Jules has been born, we haven’t been able to spend very much time alone together.” Doc gave her a sidelong glance and a smile. Clara did not return it, her own expression remaining pinched with worry. The inventor sighed. “Clara, he will be fine. I promise.”

“Marty knows so little about babies,” Clara said abruptly.

“Then so much the better for him to be forced into learning about it. He’s lived under the same roof as Jules since he was born...I don’t think he’s as clueless as you may think.”

But truth be told, Doc was a little worried about that himself. He trusted his friend, now just three days from turning nineteen. But Marty had never babysat, so far as he knew, nor had any younger siblings to tend. He had avoided the chores of changing diapers and had made himself scarce when it came to interacting with the baby for the most part. Doc’s mind recalled the brief look of panic on Marty’s face that had come when he had handed him Jules on their way out, and the way that his friend had held him -- outstretched, away from his body, his every cell communicating his discomfort.

Still, Doc knew that the only way his friend would learn any skills with children would be to actually deal with them. Doc himself had never had any experience changing infant diapers before his own son was born, and had simply had to learn how to do it as he went. Baptism by fire was harsh, but when it came to a matter of child rearing, there was very little one could do to prepare for it short of actually taking care of kids.

“I don’t know,” Clara hedged in response to Doc’s comment. “If something goes wrong, he won’t have a way to reach us.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Doc said again. “Relax, Clara. We’ll be back there before you know it. In the meantime, enjoy the night.” He slipped an arm around her back and drew her closer to him. Clara sighed and fell quiet, but it took her a long time before she relaxed against her husband.

* * *

Marty’s hands finally grew tired and he had to set the guitar aside for a little bit. The act of playing music had not only calmed the baby down, it had made him feel better himself -- more clearheaded and less cranky about life in general. The baby whimpered a little at the sudden silence. Marty shrugged.

“Sorry, kid, maybe later. My fingers need a break.”

Jules continued his small sounds of distress. Hoping to avert another tantrum, Marty got to his feet and leaned over the wooden railing of the crib. He picked the baby up under the arms and studied him for a moment, trying to figure out what was making him so cranky.

“Are you hungry? Do you want a rattle or something?” Marty added, reluctantly, “You don’t need to be changed, do you? You’re supposed to wait for your parents to get back for that.”

After another look of scrutiny, however, Marty suspected that might be it. Jules’ diaper did look a little wet and...he balanced the kid on top of the railing for a moment, adjusting his grip to cup his hand around the baby’s bottom. Yep, it was damp.

“Aw, man.... Thanks a lot.”

Frowning, now, Marty hurried out of the room with the baby held out awkwardly before him. He went upstairs to the kid’s room and set him down on the changing table. Then he stepped back and looked down at the baby, uncertain. Although Doc had shown him how to change a diaper once -- a couple months ago -- Marty had actually avoided doing the dirty deed before. He barely remembered the inventor’s demo now.

God, I hope this is just a wet one....

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath. He surveyed the clean stack of diapers folded next to the changing table and the glass jar of safety pins -- pins that Doc himself had made, as apparently safety pins had yet to be invented for the masses. His eyes shifted to the fussy baby on the padded tabletop. Jules’dark eyes looked up and met Marty’s for a moment, swimming in unshed tears of discomfort.

The teen sighed. “Oh, man,” he said miserably. He stepped forward and braced one hand on the baby’s chest. “Hold still, okay?”

Marty tried to do it fast -- roll back the kid’s gown-type garment, undo the pins, remove the wet diaper, clean him off, powder, and then get a new diaper pinned on. His mission, however, was made difficult by the baby. Jules squirmed around constantly, once coming close to rolling off the table when Marty had to use both hands to remove the lid from the baby powder. It took him almost ten minutes to do the diaper change, and even then it didn’t look quite right to the teenager. He didn’t recall Clara’s or Doc’s handiwork looking so crooked, wrinkled, or lumpy. Of course, they hadn’t wrapped the baby up in two layers, a matter that Marty did in hopes of forestalling any further diaper changes until after the couple returned home.

“Okay,” he said aloud when he had finished. He scooped the kid up under the arms again and held him out for a visual inspection. “How’s that?”

Jules blinked at him a moment, solumn-faced. He had stopped crying, thank God. Marty smiled, relieved. Jules mimicked his expression, his own smile dimpling both of his cheeks. “Better, then?” Marty asked. Jules gurgled and raised one arm out towards him. Marty shifted his hold on the baby, automatically bringing him closer and bracing him against his chest and one shoulder. “All right, great.”

Feeling slightly more confident now that he had changed the baby and quieted him down, Marty returned downstairs. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with Jules now. The kid couldn’t walk; he couldn’t talk; he wasn’t able to play any games or read yet. Yet when he tried putting him down in the playpen, Jules clutched his shirt tightly and refused to let go.

“Okay, so you don’t want to go there. What do you expect me to do?”

Jules whimpered, which wasn’t much of an answer in Marty’s opinion. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Marty said. “I can’t understand Baby, you know.” He looked at one of the clocks nearby, surprised that it was almost eight. “Hey, didn’t your parents tell me that I could put you to bed around now?”

The baby, of course, offered no answer in response to this. Marty brought Jules back upstairs to the nursery and set him down in the crib. The baby immediately started to cry. Marty spared a moment to light a lamp in the room before he lifted the baby out and sat down in the rocking chair nearby.

“What can I do to get you to conk out?”

Jules wriggled around, clearly not content to sit still. Marty stood up and started pacing around the room. “You’re not gonna make me do this for a few hours, are you?” he asked with a sigh.

It was thirty minutes before the baby settled down. During that time, Marty had to keep moving constantly; the moment he would pause, Jules would start to whine. Finally, he felt the baby grow heavier in his arms, and when he stopped near the window, Jules didn’t immediately start to complain.

Great, Marty thought. Now how can I put him down without waking him up?

He made a few more passes around the room before he chanced it, sliding Jules off his shoulder and to the adjustable crib that Doc had crafted before the birth. The baby stirred a moment once he was laid down on the mattress before growing still. Marty backed away quietly before turning and leaving the room. He pulled the door closed behind him, but stopped short of shutting it completely.

Now if he’ll just stay like that until after Doc and Clara get home, he thought, exhaling slowly. Watching the kid wasn’t as horrible as he had anticipated, but Marty knew he wouldn’t really be able to rest until his friends came home and the baby was safely in their care again. God help him if anything went wrong on his watch.

And that’s when he heard the noise downstairs.

* * *

Clara appreciated her husband’s efforts. She really did. But she simply was not enjoying herself.

The actress they had seen in the schoolhouse was suitably entertaining. A good portion of the town had turned out to see the show, and by the time it began, there was standing room only at the back. But Clara’s mind drifted repeatedly to think about her son. What if Jules cried the entire time they were gone? What if he refused to eat anything? What if he was dropped? What if he took sick? What if, what if, what if? Her hands clasped and unclasped themselves nervously in her lap as these thoughts circulated in her head.

Emmett, when he asked and Clara offered about what was on her mind, simply scoffed at her concerns. “Clara, I promise you, the baby will be fine,” he said when the actress had concluded her show and they were making their way towards the horse and carriage. “Marty is perfectly capable of watching him for a few hours.”

“You keep saying that, Emmett,” Clara said as patiently as she could. “I know that Marty means well, but--”

“We’ll be home in two more hours. I understand how stressful it must be for a mother to be away from her child for the first time--”

“Oh, really?” Clara asked, arching an eyebrow and turning to face her husband. “I had no idea that you’ve been a mother before.”

“You know what I mean,” Emmett said quickly. “The bond between a mother and her child is quite well-documented. It’s only natural that you would have some misgivings upon leaving your child’s side for the first time -- but, Clara, you can’t watch over him all the time. This date had to come sooner or later.”

“Later sounds perfectly satisfactory to me,” Clara said briskly, allowing her husband to help her into the carriage. “Must we go to the bakery now?”

Emmett sighed heavily. “If you’re that opposed to it, we don’t have to, no,” he said. “But I thought you wanted a night out?”

“I thought I did, too,” Clara admitted. “This is more difficult than I thought it would be, however. Perhaps if Marty was along, keeping a watch of the baby but still within earshot....”

“It wouldn’t be much of a night out alone, then,” Doc said ruefully. “All right, if you want to go home, we can do that now. I suppose Marty will be pleased to be released from sitting duty earlier than he thought.”

Clara gave her spouse a smile as he climbed into the carriage beside her. “Thank you, Emmett,” she said. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

Emmett reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “It’s no bother,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find everything was as we left it.”

“Perhaps so,” Clara said. “I hope so.” She leaned over and gave her husband a quick kiss before they started forward.

* * *

The sound was soft -- simply the creak of the front door swinging open. But when there was no sound of chatter and -- more importantly -- no sound of the door closing a moment later, Marty felt that something wasn’t quite right. He walked down the hall and peered over the railing that overlooked the foyer. The door, he saw, was standing ajar, but the entryway below was empty.

Must be the wind, he thought. But there was an error with that reasoning; it hadn’t been very windy at all earlier in the evening. Even more confusing, he knew that when the weather had been blustery in the past, the door had never been blown open before.

Oh, cut it out, McFly. It probably just didn’t latch all the way when Doc and Clara left.

Marty went down the stairs, frowning thoughtfully. He stood in the open doorway for a moment before leaning outside for a look. The night was calm, quiet. He heard a few crickets chirping loudly but nothing beyond that. Definitely no wind. Still curious, Marty grasped the doorknob on the inside and turned it a few times, feeling and hearing the bolt slide in the mechanism. It wasn’t sticking, he saw at once. He took a step back into the house and shut the door, giving the knob a tug to make sure that it was properly latched. The door didn’t budge.

Still a little puzzled by that, Marty stepped away from the door and turned around. A blur of motion drew his attention to the right, towards the open French doors that led to the parlor. He blinked in surprise at the figure in the doorway who was clad in a tattered hat pulled low over the face, a tattered duster coat, and dirty, rundown boots, Marty noticed little else in light of the gun that was drawn and aimed in his direction.

“Can I help you?” he asked, as if the sight of a gun barrel in his face was not unusual.

“Where’s the blacksmith?” the stranger demanded gruffly.

“He’s not here,” Marty said. “But if you want to leave a message, I’ll make sure he gets that.”

“I reckon not,” the stranger said. He reached up and pushed the brim of his hat back, revealing his face. Marty’s eyes widened in recognition -- it was that kid, Bowie, who had visited the smithing shop a couple days before!

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, that nagging sense of deja vu dogging him again as he looked the kid in the eye.

Bowie’s blue eyes narrowed into a mean squint. Despite his young age, he held the gun out before him like someone who had had a lot of experience with the weapon. “Does the name Buford Tannen mean anything to you?”

Marty was not entirely sure where this was going, but hearing that name sent a cold chill rippling across his skin. “Mad Dog Tannen? Yeah, I know ‘em.”

The eyes of the kid before him narrowed even more. “Don’t call ‘em that,” he snapped, his thumb fingering the hammer of the gun. “Unless you want a hole in your chest.”

“Why do you care?” Marty asked, finding it a little hard to really take this all seriously. The situation had a vaguely surreal aspect to it.

“He’s my pa, an’ I won’t stand here an’ let you sully his name. You an’ the ‘smith have already done enough to hurt us.”

Marty’s mind whirled with this information. It made perfect sense, though. Now that he knew what he did, the teen could spot definite physical traits in the kid’s face, posture, and mannerisms that reminded him all too well of both Biff and Buford. So that’s why he had felt like he should know the kid!

It also meant, unfortunately, that he was dealing with a potential loose cannon on his hands. Any Tannen with a gun was bad news; Marty had almost been shot...well, actually was shot when he faced off with Buford...any time one of them was armed. He had a sick feeling in his gut that things might be more of the same here, even if this Tannen was no more than thirteen or fourteen years old.

“All right,” he said, sounding much more calmer than he felt right then. “Why are you here? You want to see the blacksmith?”

“There’s a matter of payment we need to settle,” Bowie said, not elaborating. “While we’re waitin’ for him, you can show me where he keeps his valuables.”

Marty tried to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat. “So this is a robbery? Why didn’t you say so? What if I don’t cooperate?”

Bowie moved the gun a quarter inch to the left and fired. The sound was deafening, and one of the windows near the front door shattered. Marty stumbled back a step, not expecting the gunshot. He swallowed hard, trying to move his now-pounding heart from his throat and back to his chest where it rightfully belonged. His legs suddenly felt rubbery, his joints weak and shaky.

“I could shoot you now,” Bowie said, reaiming the gun right at Marty’s chest. “Pa said I was a good shot and taught me all he knew before he left. I ain’t gonna miss.”

“No need to prove that to me,” Marty said lightly. “I--I don’t know where Doc -- the blacksmith, I mean -- keeps his valuables, but I’m sure he’d be happy to let you have some when he gets back.”

Bowie opened his mouth to say something in response to that, but he was interrupted by a wail from above. Jules had likely been wakened by the gunshot. His eyes flickered in the direction of the noise for a second, but his gun remained aimed at Marty, his finger on the trigger.

“What’s that?”

“The baby. He’ll keep that up until someone goes in there.”

“Baby? Who’s baby? Yours?” Bowie’s eyes focused on Marty’s hands, which had raised themselves up at their own accord after that warning shot. “You’re not married.”

“And I’m sure that your mother was married to your father,” Marty said, the puckish response falling out of his mouth before he really thought about the consequences. Bowie scowled, taking a step closer and shoving the gun forward to tap Marty -- none to softly -- in the chest.

“You leave my ma outta this! She was a good woman an’ she did the best she could!”

“She probably could’ve done better than Buford Tannen,” Marty muttered under his breath. Bowie caught the comment. His face resembled his father’s as he suddenly stepped even closer and drew the weapon back. Marty’s vision seemed to jump and double before a bolt of hot agony shot through his jaw. He dropped to his knees, gasping in surprise and pain, his hands going to his face where Bowie had slugged him with the gun.

“Shit,” he mumbled, his eyes welling with tears. He saw the blurred shape of Bowie’s boots come closer and felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his neck.

“Take that back, you runt,” Bowie breathed, his voice chilled with hatred.

Marty tentative pressed his fingers along his jaw and lips. When he removed them from a look, they came back stained with blood. God, what if this punk teenager knocked out some of his teeth? His mouth was a throbbing area of pain; it was impossible to inventory the damage right then. “I take it back,” he murmured. “Your mother was a fine, upstanding woman.” Who really must’ve been desperate to let a Tannen get within five feet of her, let alone close enough to have sex.

He heard Bowie breathing heavily, even as Jules’ cries grew louder and more frantic. At long last, the gun was moved away from his neck, and Marty was able to raise his head and blink away the tears of pain that were still fuzzing his vision. He found himself peering directly into the muzzle of the weapon.

“Get the baby,” Bowie demanded. “Get me any valuables. Now.”

Marty climbed to his feet, the pain escalating in his face as the blood rushed to his head. He cradled one hand against his jaw and used the other to slide along the bannister as he went up the stairs. Bowie remained close behind, making it clear that if Marty strayed from his mission he would wind up with a bullet in his back. How terribly ironic.

Marty made his first stop Jules’ bedroom, hoping that the baby would hush up once he was held. He got the impression that Bowie was not going to be the kind of guy who took kindly to crying babies. Jules paused in his demands for attention when Marty peered over the edge of the crib. The baby’s face was pouty and tears streaked his cheeks.

“Hey, kid,” Marty said softly, trying to smile. He terminated the attempt almost immediately; it aggravated the throbbing in his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

Jules wailed in response. Marty reached in and picked up the baby, holding him close and patting his back as he turned around to face the young outlaw. Bowie’s eyes were locked on the baby. Jules stared at the outlaw even as he continued to cry.

“That’s the smith’s kid, ain’t it?” Bowie asked.

Marty didn’t want to answer that question, sensing on some level that it could put Jules in danger. He couldn’t lie, though; it would be clear, once Bowie got a close look at him, that the baby -- with his dark eyes and dark hair -- was not a direct relation to the teenager. Besides, Bowie knew that Doc was married, and Marty was not -- and this was Doc’s home, not Marty’s. Even a Tannen wouldn’t be dumb enough to not make the connections under all those circumstances.

“You wanted valuables?” he asked. “They’re probably in the bedroom down the hall. Clara’s jewelry, anyway.”

Bowie made a curt gesture with his gun. “Show me.”

Marty left the room, Bowie once more dogging his steps, and went to the master bedroom nearby. Jules was still fussy, and although he was no longer shrieking, he continued to whine, whimper, and squirm around. Maybe he knew that they were in a bad situation.

Doc and Clara’s room was dark. Bowie ordered Marty to light one of the lamps in the room, a matter made difficult in that Marty was afraid to put the baby down. After a few minutes of fumbling, he finally got the oil lamp near Doc’s side of the bed going.

“Where is it?” Bowie asked, standing near the doorway and continuing to point his gun in Marty’s direction.

“I don’t really know,” Marty said. He wasn’t entirely fibbing -- he was assuming that Clara probably had some jewelry of some worth in the room. He also assumed that anything that would be seriously valuable was not in the house at all but in Doc’s lab somewhere. There was just no way Marty was going to suggest to the young outlaw that they needed to go out there. Not with pieces of the time machine around. It was a moot point anyway, though, since he didn’t have a key to the building, and Doc kept that place locked up much better than the house.

Bowie scowled. Once more, he waved the gun around to indicate what he wanted. “Go pull everything out of the dresser an’ wardrobe an’ throw it down on the bed.”

Marty found himself hoping that one of the things he might find would be a gun hidden in one of the dresser drawers. Alas, he was unlucky in that area. In one drawer that appeared to be Clara’s, he did uncover a small wooden box that had been buried amid stockings and garters and other things that appeared to be underwear for women at the time. Inside were some pretty pieces of jewelry that looked as if they were worth something -- as well as being possible family heirlooms. Bowie snatched it greedily out of his hands before the teen could try to hide it, and then decided that Marty was apparently taking too long.

After ordering him to stand by the windows -- which would put him away from the door, the only exit out of the room -- the outlaw used one hand to remove drawers and clothes, dump them onto the floor, and sift for anything of value. The other hand held the gun, which he continued to train on Marty, looking up every few seconds.

While the ransacking was going on, Marty tried to keep the baby as quiet as he could while his mind whirled for a way out of this. He didn’t dare try anything with a gun aimed his way, and Jules in his arms. He found himself hoping that Doc and Clara might decide to come back early. The clocks in the room told him it was a quarter to nine; it was possible.

But what would happen then? Something told Marty that Bowie wasn’t about to have a few words with Doc and leave it at that. Oh, no. The teen knew that Doc had a gun, but was almost positive that the inventor had brought it with him into town. One never knew when they might run into a wayward bear or trouble in these parts. If there was another weapon here, Marty was not aware of where it was located.

Bowie finally finished emptying everything out of the room. He removed the top blanket from the bed and folded it up so that all the loot he had collected weighed down and created a little hobo-type pouch. He looked at Marty once this was done.

“That all?” he asked.

“It’s all I know of,” Marty said, the words feeling a little funny as they left his lips. Although it had stopped bleeding, his mouth felt swollen; it was hard to articulate his words without having them slur together a little.

Bowie advanced towards him, his eyes gleaming in the light of the single lamp. “Give me the baby,” he said.

Marty tightened his grip on Jules, who had suddenly grown quiet, gazing solumnly at the young Tannen. This was exactly what he had feared. “Why?”

“I want him,” Bowie said, not elaborating. “Give him to me.” He cocked the hammer back on his gun. “Now.”

Marty’s eyes darted between the gun and the outlaw’s face. His choices seemed clear -- surrender the baby or get shot. And if he gave him Jules, who was to say that he wouldn’t wind up shot anyway?

Marty took a deep breath. Bowie stopped no more than an arm’s length away, the muzzle of the gun a quarter inch from his head. “No,” he said in a low voice, hugging the baby so hard that Jules whimpered, starting to squirm.

The young eyes of the outlaw widened and then squinted in apparent thought or concentration. There was a blur of motion...and something hard and heavy slammed into the side of Marty’s head.

* * *

Doc couldn’t help but feel disappointed by the evening as they finally came into view of their home. It had been his hope that a night out would restore his wife’s spirits and remind them of the couple they had once been before their son had arrived. Instead, it was obvious to him that Clara had not enjoyed herself.

“There’s the house,” Doc said, nodding to the structure when it became visible. “As you can see, it’s still standing.”

“Good,” Clara said, sounding relieved. “I know you must think me a perfect fool for spoiling tonight.”

“I know you’re concerned about leaving Jules. But, Clara, you have to realize that you will eventually need to do that.”

“He’s just a baby, Emmett.”

“Today, yes. But soon enough he will be talking and walking....he will develop into his own person. It will be normal and healthy to spend some time away from him. I’m not trying to hurt you by saying these things,” Doc added quickly as his wife narrowed her eyes. “I’m simply worried about you burning yourself out.”

“Perhaps when he’s done nursing, we can try something like this again,” Clara said softly. “I just cannot bear to not be there with him if he cries. Surely he misses us.”

“I’m sure that Marty is keeping him entertained. Everything will be fine.”

“I hope so. I won’t really be able to relax until I see it for myself, however,” she added.

She wouldn’t have to wait too long. Five minutes later, the inventor was driving around to the back of the house and stopped the carriage near the porch. “You go ahead inside and check on the baby,” he told his wife. “I’ll be in after I put Newton out into the pasture.”

Clara nodded and carefully climbed down from the carriage. “Thank you, Emmett,” she said, sounding relieved. Doc watched her mount the porch steps before he started forward towards the covered overhang adjacent to the barn. He had constructed that last spring, allowing the carriage a place to be protected from the elements so he could have additional space in the barn.

He had moved no more than twenty feet when he heard his wife shout his name. “Emmett! Emmett, come quick!”

Doc yanked Newton to a halt and turned around in his seat. Clara stood on the porch, her eyes wide and frantic. Without hesitation, sensing the urgency, Doc hopped down from the carriage and ran over.

“What is it?” he asked as he approached the house.

Clara seized his hand and pulled him forward, through the back door, the kitchen, and the hallway that ran to the front of the house. She stopped in the foyer, near the stairs. “Look!”

Next to the front door a pane of glass was broken. The remains of it were scattered over the floor near the door. It was strange and troubling, to be sure, but not anything to panic over.

“The window is broken?” he said aloud. “Is that all?”

Clara shook her head, her hat slightly askew from the gesture. “Why hasn’t it been cleaned up?” she asked, her voice shrill. “Where is Marty?”

That was indeed a good question. “Marty!” Doc called out. Silence greeted his bellow. He looked at his wife. “Look in his room, and I’ll look upstairs. Maybe he’s fallen asleep somewhere.”

“So early?” Clara asked, skeptical.

Doc didn’t answer her question. He started up the stairs, and when he reached the top landing, a troubling scent caught in his nose. Smoke. Without being aware of it, Doc quickened his pace. The smell grew stronger as he approached his and Clara’s bedroom near the end of the hall. The door, he noticed, was partially closed. “Marty?” he called again.

No answer. Doc reached his bedroom, shoved the door open -- and saw a pool of flames on the rug, spiking into the air at the foot of the bed. The fire was beginning to lick the footboard.

Doc -- who had set more than a few fires in his time -- reacted quickly: He grabbed the quilt from a stand near the door and began to beat at the flames. Within a minute, he was able to snuff them out. Coughing, choking on the smoke, he staggered across the floor to open the windows...and stumbled over something. He glanced down as he caught his balance against the wall and, in the illumination of moonlight that slanted through the windows, caught a glimpse of the object that had tripped him up. It was, he saw at once, a person lying on their side, their face turned away from him.

Forgetting his mission for fresh air, Doc dropped to his knees and reached out to roll the person onto his back. He had a sudden, sick feeling in his gut about the identity, and a moment later, when the head rolled back, revealing the face, his suspicion was confirmed. It was Marty.

Doc’s hand immediately went to his friend’s wrist, trembling as it groped around the cuff of his sleeve for a pulse. It was a lifetime before he felt it -- just as Marty coughed weakly. The inventor’s hands moved to grasp him by the front of his shirt and give him a shake. “Marty? Marty!”

“Emmett! Emmett, I can’t find him!” he heard Clara call out from down the hall.

Doc turned his head towards the door. “He’s right here, Clara.”

Clara appeared in the doorway of the smokey room seconds later. Her hand covered her mouth and she coughed delicately into her hand before she spoke. “What’s happened?”

“Can you open the windows, get me a wet washrag, and then go into Jules’ room?” Doc asked, not answering her question.

It took Clara a moment before her eyes focused on her husband, crouched beside the bed. She gave the scorched rug a wide berth as she hurried over. Her eyes widened as she saw Marty. “What happened?” she asked again. “Is Jules in here?”

“I don’t think so.” Doc turned his head away and coughed. “The windows, Clara....”

Clara hurriedly tended to the task, struggling a little to wrestle open the heavy panes of glass. Once they were all open, the air cleared quickly. By the time Clara had fetched him the washrag from the pitcher and washstand and checked the nursery, Doc had spared the time to light the lamp by her side of the bed. The lamp on his side, the one that was closest to Marty, was mysteriously absent, and the scientist theorized that it had been the cause of the fire. Bits of glass and the broken base, melted into the now-ruined rug, seemed to support that theory.

“Jules isn’t in his room!” Clara said, her face pale in the lamp’s circle of light. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Doc said, determined to remain calm and not jump to any conclusions. He moved the lamp to the table next to his side of the bed in order to have a better look at his friend. When that was taken care of, he crouched down next to Marty once more and wiped at his friend’s face with the damp rag, hoping to bring him around. With the addition of the light, Doc was able to see an ugly bruise forming on the left side of Marty’s face, near his forehead, and another one on his right side, around his mouth.

“We should fetch the sheriff,” Clara said. “We need help.”

“Later,” Doc said, distracted. “I’d like to talk to Marty first.”

Clara peered down at him, her hands nervously knotting together. “Emmett, our room is in shambles,” she said sharply. “Our son is missing. We need help!”

Doc looked up and, for the first time, noticed that their dresser drawers were opened, the contents scattered and strewn across the floor. Robbery, he thought at once. But that didn’t make much sense to him. Why would anyone want to rob them? More puzzling still was how Marty had ended up unconscious in this room and how the fire had started. Doc didn’t think that he had been overcome from the smoke, not so quickly and not lying on the floor as he was where the air was much cleaner. His breathing was steady and stable, not raspy in the least. Doc also found it difficult to believe, based on where Marty was lying in proximity to where the fire had started, that the teen had fainted and dropped the lamp as he fell.

The absence of Jules was even more troubling. Doc hoped that their son was simply tucked away somewhere else. He turned to Clara again. “Check every single room in the house,” he said. “Maybe the baby fell asleep somewhere. I’m going to get the first aid kit and try to bring Marty around.”

Clara’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I already looked in every room downstairs and up here,” she said. “He’s not anywhere!”

“Look again,” Doc said. She turned and left, her footsteps moving quickly down the hall. The inventor was on her heels a moment later, darting to the small room that he considered to be the bathroom...just without a toilet or running water. He grabbed the first-aid supplies in the tin box and ran it back to the master bedroom. Setting it down on the floor beside Marty, he opened it up and rummaged around until he found the smelling salts.

“I hope this works,” he murmured under his breath as he pulled it out. If someone had fainted, it could work wonders in reviving them. If someone was unconscious from a blow to the head, however, things could be considerably more dicey. Doc gripped the smelling salts in one hand and picked up the damp washrag with the other. As he dabbed the latter over the teen’s forehead, he placed the salts under Marty’s nose with the other.

“Marty?” he said softly. “Marty, open your eyes.”

No response and no reaction. Concerned, Doc leaned over for a closer look of the bruises on Marty’s head. There was some swelling to both, moreso around the one near his mouth, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the wound the teen had sustained when he had been thrown from the DeLorean’s cab almost two years ago.

The scientist moved the salts closer to Marty’s nostrils, but his friend’s slow respiration did not change in any way. Damn. Doc drew the salts back. A terribly hard, cold sensation settled in his stomach.

What on earth happened here?

Clara returned to the room, the sound of her footsteps proceeding her arrival. “Jules is not in the house,” she said, her voice sharpened by fear. “Someone took him, Emmett.”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions, Clara--”

Clara’s dark eyes suddenly blazed. “What other explanation is there?” she demanded. “Has Marty said anything?”

“I can’t wake him. He’s sustained a blow to the head. We’re going to have to wait for him to wake on his own.”

“That could take hours! We cannot wait that long! If you’re not going to fetch the sheriff from town than I will!”

Doc hastily stood. “Clara, wait--”

“No!” Clara shouted, stepping back, her face chalk white. “I cannot simply sit here and wait around while our baby is in danger! Don’t you care about your son?”

“Of course I do--”

“Then you need to get the sheriff! You need to help me find Jules! Stop hovering over Marty. Sometimes I feel like you care more about him than your own baby!”

Doc stared at his wife, feeling as if he had been slapped. “Clara!”

Clara’s face abruptly crumpled and she dropped her face into her hands. “I’m so-sorry,” she said, sobbing. “I-I-I--”

Although he was still smarting from her words, Doc stepped forward and wordlessly took her into his arms. Clara drew back for a split second before pressing against him, her body tense and trembling. Her hot tears soaked the shoulder of his dresscoat. “Where is our baby?” she moaned softly, the words muffled as they were uttered into his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Doc said, a sense of unreality gripping him. Perhaps he was in shock. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out. All right?”

He glanced at Marty lying on the floor. “I’ll move Marty down to his room, and if you want to keep an eye on him and sit with him until he wakes, I’ll go into town and get the authorities.”

Doc felt his wife nod her head in agreement against his shoulder. She looked up at him a moment later, her eyes red. “Hurry,” she pleaded. “Please hurry.”

* * *

Emmett kept his word. Within ten minutes he carried his unconscious friend out of the room, down the flight of stairs, and to the bedroom on the first floor. Clara trailed him nervously, her heart racing, her mouth dry, feeling sick with worry about her baby. Nothing about this situation made the least bit of sense to her.

“I don’t understand why someone took Jules,” she said as her husband was easing Marty down on top of the covers of his bed. She had managed to light the lamp on the young man’s desk, despite her hands shaking and trembling from the stress she was under. The shadows jumped around the room from the flickering flame, the effect making Clara feel even more on edge.

“We don’t know that he was taken,” Emmett said, his voice soft and calm. “There may be another rational explanation -- he might have fallen asleep somewhere in the house and we just haven’t found him yet.”

“I find it difficult to believe how a baby who can scarcely crawl can be expected to hide himself so well,” Clara said stiffly.

Emmett straightened up from where he had been bent over the bed. “Marty may have placed him somewhere if he saw an intruder in the home,” he said.

Clara shook her head, not able to believe that. As much as she craved a simple, basic explanation in that vein, her instincts told her loudly that something was wrong, that her son was in danger. Ignoring that inner voice of alarm was impossible. “No, I don’t think so.”

Emmett turned around to look at her. “Keep an eye on him while I’m gone,” he said, nodding towards the bed where his friend lay. “Once Marty is awake, I think he may be able to provide us an explanation as to what happened while we were gone.”

Clara fairly itched to shake the young man awake the moment her husband left. She nodded. “All right. You’ll bring the lawmen with you?”

“I’ll do my best,” Emmett said. “Let’s just hope they’re not elsewhere tonight.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick, distracted kiss before turning towards the door. He stopped two steps shy of it. “Oh, Clara, I think you might want to get the gun tonight.”

Clara blinked. “The gun?” she echoed. Emmett had his modified rifle that he brought with him. Surely he couldn’t mean that?

“Yes. I’ll get it.” His face set into grim, serious lines, Emmett departed the room. Clara remained standing by the desk a moment, staring at the space where her husband had stood seconds before, and then turned her head to regard their permanent houseguest on the bed. Marty was now lying flat on his back, his arms at his sides, his head supported by one of his pillows. His face was turned towards the center of the room and consequently the side of the bed where Clara stood. She bent over him and gently brushed his bangs off his forehead, hoping that the gentle touch would revive him. His face remained still and slack. She sat down on the edge of the bed with an impatient, frustrated sigh.

Emmett returned several minutes later holding a silver Colt in one hand. “Here,” he said, setting it down on Marty’s desk. “It’s loaded, so be careful.”

“Do you think the robbers will come back?” Clara asked, the idea not scaring her as much as she would have thought.

“I don’t want to take any chances. I’ve got the rifle with me. I checked all the windows and doors and made sure they’re locked on this floor, but there’s not much we can do about that broken window out front. Don’t open the door for anyone unless it’s myself or the sheriff, and bring the gun with you when you do answer it.”

Such precautions did not seem the least bit excessive in Clara’s opinion. Not considering some of the criminals out there now. She nodded solemnly at the instructions. “I’ll do that,” she promised.

“Keep a cold rag on Marty’s head, on the bruise there,” Emmett advised. “It should cut the swelling down and may help him revive sooner. Don’t jump on him the moment he opens his eyes,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “He will probably be groggy and disoriented.” He paused, frowning. “Maybe I should get the doctor, too.”

“The sheriff first,” Clara said. “I’m sure Marty will be fine.”

“I hope so, but after what happened a couple years ago....” Emmett looked worried suddenly. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

“Be careful,” Clara said as he turned to leave.

“You, too.”

She followed him to the back door, taking care to bolt it behind him, and then returned to Marty’s bedroom. The young man was still unconscious. Clara quickly soaked the washrag in his room’s basin, wrung it out, and then set it on the bruise on his left temple.

“Wake up, Marty,” she said in her best no nonsense teacher’s voice, leaning over to lightly slap one of his cheeks. “Open your eyes, now.”

Marty did no such thing, simply remaining still, his eyes stubbornly closed. Clara felt her own eyes fill with tears of frustration. “Oh, blast,” she whispered, the closest she came to swearing. “Why can’t you wake up and tell us what happened?”

Clara withdrew her hand, sat down on the edge of the bed, and slouched forward, dropping her face in her hands. Warm tears spilled from her eyes and oozed between her fingers to land on the lap of her new gown. What did it matter if she ruined her dress? What did anything matter if her baby was missing, and the only person who might be able to tell her what happened was not communicating right at the moment?

Clara was not sure how long she sat there, her heart hurting so fiercely that she could hardly draw in breath. A sound finally broke the thick silence that surrounded her -- a soft groan. Clara lifted her head, her palms slick with her tears, and turned her head to look at Marty. The young man turned his head to the right, knocking the cold washrag askew.

Before she knew what she was doing, Clara bent over him and seized his shoulders with both hands, giving him a firm shake.

“Marty! Marty, wake up!”

Marty opened his eyes halfway, peering up at Clara with a pained, dazed look on his face. “What?” he mumbled.

Clara could not help herself. “Where is Jules?” she asked. “Where is our baby?”

Marty blinked once, slowly, his eyes glassy. “Huh?”

“Jules. Where is Jules? Where is the baby?” Her voice came out shrill, panicked.

Marty closed his eyes and turned his face away from her, reaching up to his head. His forehead puckered. “My head hurts,” Clara heard him whisper. “What happened?”

“That is just what Emmett and I want to know. We came home and...were we robbed?”

“What?”

The same question was swiftly straining Clara’s nerves and what little patience she could summon. “There was a fire in our bedroom where we found you. A window had been broken near the door. All of our dresser and wardrobe doors have been emptied onto the floor. Our son is nowhere to be found. What happened?”

Marty’s eyes suddenly opened and he abruptly sat up, nearly colliding with Clara. “Bowie,” he said softly. He struggled to untangle his legs from the light summer quilt that Emmett had draped over him. Clara’s mind puzzled over the single word he uttered.

“What is that?” she asked.

Marty didn’t answer her. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood -- and his legs promptly buckled. Clara reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt, tugging him back to where she still sat on the edge of the bed. Clara glimpsed his eyes falling shut as he fell back to the covers, and she pounced on him at once.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said sharply, giving him a hard shake. “You stay awake, Marty McFly, do you hear me?”

Marty moaned softly, reaching up once more to his forehead. Frustrated that his eyes had not yet opened, desperate for answers, Clara slapped him across the face. She didn’t mean to do it, and not so hard, but the impact of the blow made her palm sting. She did, however, get the result she had desired: Marty opened his eyes and stared at her. She glimpsed several emotions in his gaze -- hurt, confusion, even fear.

“Clara?” he said, his voice bewildered.

“I’m sorry,” Clara said quickly. “I simply need you to tell me what happened. Emmett needs you to tell us what happened.”

From his back on the mattress, Marty frowned. “Where’s Doc?”

“He went to fetch the sheriff, and perhaps a doctor. He tried to rouse you before he left and failed. Marty, we need to know what happened. Where is Jules?”

Marty’s brow furrowed. He closed his eyes a moment and grimaced, gently rubbing his forehead with one hand. “He isn’t here?”

“No! No, we’ve looked everywhere! Did you put him somewhere?”

“No. I can’t remember. I don’t think so. What happened?”

Clara clenched her teeth together in frustration, balling one hand into a fist in her lap. Was he really going to make her go through it all over again? “What did you mean a moment ago when you said that word? Bowie?”

“Oh, God.” Marty started to sit up again, but Clara pressed a firm hand to his chest, keeping him down on the bed. She was not going to chance having him faint. Marty’s eyes were wide open now, panicked. “Bowie Tannen! Buford Tannen’s son! He was here.”

The words made little sense to Clara. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that he came here! He was looking for Doc, wanted to talk to him about something. He’s got a grudge against him.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Marty became even more agitated, fighting to brush her hand aside and sit up. Clara’s position remained firm, however. “Clara, Doc almost got shot by Tannen on your first date because he blamed him for his horse throwing a shoe! Remember?”

“Of course,” Clara said frostily, the explanation not answering her question. “I remember that vile man. He’s in prison now...isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but his son isn’t. He has a kid.” Marty reached up and pressed the damp washrag to the bump on his forehead. He winced again. “Oh, God, my head.”

“This child of his came here tonight?” Clara prompted.

“Yeah. He wanted to see Doc, but you guys were out.” Marty closed his eyes with a pained expression on his face. “I don’t remember everything.”

“What do you remember? Tell me that much.”

“Bowie had a gun. He wanted...something. Jewelry and stuff, I think.” Marty groaned softly, eyes still shut. “I don’t remember anything after that. I think he hit me, though, in the face.” He reached up and gently touched his swollen lip. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“Where was Jules during all this?” Clara asked.

“I’d put him to bed already,” Marty said after a moment’s pause, opening his eyes to look at her. “Isn’t he still there?”

“No! I already told you that!” Clara’s patience was deteriorating swiftly.

“Well, sorry, I kind of have a headache,” Marty snapped right back, his tone not quite as acidic as the former teacher’s. He pressed the base of his palm over the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes again. “What time did you get here?”

“Not very late. We didn’t go to the teahouse after the performance. Emmett found you in our room, lying on the floor, and there was a fire burning at the foot of the bed. One of the lamps looks like it had fallen to the ground and shattered. Emmett put it out before it could cause much damage.”

“We went upstairs,” Marty said suddenly. “I remember that now. Bowie thought there were valuables in your bedroom...or maybe I told him that. I can’t remember,” There was a note of frustration in his voice.

“Where was Jules?”

“I don’t remember.”

Clara abruptly stood and walked to the other side of the room, pressing her lips together hard in an effort to keep from screaming out loud. “I don’t remember, I don’t remember, I don’t remember.” If she had to hear Marty say that one more time, she would scream. She took several deep breaths before turning around to look at him. “I’ll get some tea for you,” she said, her voice coming out cooler than she had intended. “It might help your head, and maybe then you can remember more.”

She left the room without waiting for the young man’s response, walking briskly through the dark hallways to the kitchen. By the time she filled the kettle with the pump and set it on the stovetop, her face was damp with renewed tears. But Clara did not give into the urge to collapse at the kitchen table and sob, as she so fiercely desired in that moment. Instead, she vented her fear and frustration by yanking open the stove door and throwing wood inside as hard as she could.

She wasn’t mad at Marty -- not exactly. Even though she had to restrain herself from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him hard enough to rattle his teeth in hopes of jarring loose another recollection from earlier in the evening, she wasn’t angry with him. Frustrated, yes. What made it difficult to be angry with him was that it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t remember....was it? He wasn’t doing it on purpose; certainly not. A knock to the head could rattle anyone’s senses. And yet....

...If Emmett and I had been here, Jules would not be missing, Clara thought with utter certainty. We would have protected him far better than Marty!

Yes, that was it. Marty had let them down. He had failed to protect their baby from danger. And for that, Clara wondered if she was capable of forgiving him.

* * *

As he waited for Clara to return with the tea, Marty felt his anxiety mount by leaps and bounds. Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong, and he had a sick feeling in his gut that somehow he was responsible for it all. It did not help matters that he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see past the nauseating throb in his head. The more he struggled to remember what had happened earlier, the more his head hurt.

Forget it, he thought, shutting his eyes and pressing the damp washcloth over his eyelids, trying to lessen the steel teeth of the headache. You can’t remember. Stop trying.

Even if that was true, to not try seemed impossible. Marty’s mind replayed the look on Clara’s face when he tried to tell her that he was running into a blank wall when it came to the whereabouts of her son. He remembered the flash of pain across his cheek as she had slapped him -- something so out of character that it had taken away his breath for a moment. When he had looked at her then, seconds before she blurted an apology, he had glimpsed a dislike, a hatred directed towards him that made him feel sick.

It’s my fault, he thought, wishing he could just disappear right then. This whole thing is my fault.

Of course, he didn’t know -- couldn’t remember -- all the details of the big picture. But even so, Marty knew that he had been the one Doc and Clara had trusted to look after their kid. The baby was now MIA, and Marty had one hell of a headache from Bowie Tannen doing...what? Crashing a vase over his head? Knocking his gun into his face? Or perhaps swinging the oil lamp into his skull?

That brought up a most disquieting detail to him: He had been found unconscious while a fire was happily burning away in part of the room. Marty had no idea how serious the fire was -- probably not very if Doc had been able to put it out before it could harm the house so badly that they couldn’t stay in it -- but the very fact that he had been left behind like that made him feel cold all over. If Doc and Clara hadn’t decided to come home early, if the inventor hadn’t gotten to the fire before it had grown out of control, Marty probably would have been as good as dead.

Think, McFly, think, he urged. He mentally traced his memories forward, from the point he had opened the front door. Bowie had been there, and had come in, demanding to see Doc, demanding riches. He had slugged Marty in the face, in the mouth, with his gun when the teen had said something about his mother or father, hadn’t he? Yeah, his lower lip was definitely still swollen from that encounter. Bowie had also fired a shot. That had shattered one of the windows near the front door.

They had gone upstairs after that, hadn’t they? Marty thought he remembered that, as well as his reasoning at the time that if Bowie was going to smack him around and show that he knew how to fire a gun, he probably shouldn’t mess with him. Even if he was just a kid -- a tough kid, but a kid nonetheless.

Had Jules started to cry from the gunshot? Marty couldn’t recall, but it seemed like a perfectly logical chain of events. There were two probably scenarios then that the teen guessed had happened -- either the baby had started making noise and Bowie had discovered him, or else after he had taken care of Marty and set the house on fire, he had found the kid and took off with him.

Either way, Marty was almost positive that Bowie Tannen was now in possession of Jules, and that was definitely a bad thing.

“Oh, God,” he groaned softly, the exclamation prompted more from the situation than his own physical pains. He removed the washcloth from his eyelids and opened his eyes. The single light of the lamp made his headache lurch up a notch. Trying to ignore that, Marty slowly sat up. The room swam around him. Without thinking about it, he bit his lower lip -- and let out a faint cry as it renewed the tenderness in the place where Bowie had also made his mark. It took all of his will not to sink back to the covers and pull the cold washrag back over his eyes, to hide from the world as much as to try and ease his headache.

Taking a couple deep breaths, Marty managed to sit up all the way and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat like that for a minute or two, trying to ignore both the dizziness and the throb echoing throughout his skull. When he felt he had it under control, he cautiously stood.

A powerful black wave seemed to slam into the side of his head. Marty quickly sat back down before it could knock him to his knees. He leaned way over, his head between his legs, trying to stabilize the world around him. The twisting and turning around him gradually disappeared. When he raised his head again, a couple minutes later, he felt weak, shaky, sickened, and drained.

Okay...no big deal. I’ll just lie down for a while. That’ll probably help, right?

The idea of remaining in that room, confined to the bed, did not sit very well with him under the circumstances. He should be doing something, dammit! It was the least he could do after what had happened on his watch. But Marty also knew that if he tried to push it, he was either going to end up crumpling to the floor or else lose his dinner all over himself or the bed. Neither scenario was appealing, and both would give Clara even more stress than she already had to deal with.

So Marty lay back down on the bed, curled up on his side, and closed his eyes again.

Not much later, Clara’s footsteps approached the room. Marty heard them halt just outside his door. He opened his eyes for her benefit. “I’m awake,” he croaked.

Clara’s chin lowered in a terse nod. Her eyes were distant, and her face seemed oddly stiff to Marty, as if it had frozen up. Well, she was probably in shock, all things considered. He couldn’t blame her in the least for that. She stepped into the room and held out a steaming mug. “Here,” she said. “Drink this.”

Marty raised his head off the pillow enough so that he would not choke when he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. The brew was strong and bitter, but if it helped his headache, who cared? He took a couple swallows, feeling it burn a trail down his throat to his stomach, and then handed it back to Clara. “Thanks.”

Clara nodded again in that odd, distracted way. As she put it on the desk near the bed, Marty spotted for the first time the pistol lying there. He frowned. “Where’d the gun come from?”

“Emmett gave it to me before he left,” Clara said. “In case whoever robbed us returned.”

“Where did he get it from? Was that in the house the whole time?”

“I think so.”

Marty’s frown deepened. “Why didn’t he ever tell me about that? It might’ve helped when Bowie was here.”

“I don’t know, Marty,” There was an utterly exhausted note to Clara’s voice. She dropped down into the chair at the desk and sighed, her eyes drifting over to the window nearby. “I wish Emmett would hurry back.”

Marty did, too, though he couldn’t help feeling a little ill when he thought about what words his friend might have for him when he arrived. He had rarely, if ever, seen Clara so rattled, and it did not bode well in his opinion for Doc’s own reaction to Marty losing their baby.

The teenager allowed his head to drop back to the pillow and closed his eyes again, once more wishing he could just disappear.

* * *

It had taken Doc far longer than he wished before he could locate Marshall Strickland in town. As it was getting late, the law officer was not in the town’s small jail, which was locked up tight and currently without any prisoners. His next move had been to visit the saloon, which kept later hours than anything else in town. There, he had explained his predicament to Chester, the bartender, who had sent his protégé, Joey, off to rouse the Marshall at home. It was a good thirty minutes later before the lawman showed up, and several minutes after that the sheriff joined them as well, as Joey had ridden on to inform him of the unfolding events. Doc briefly explained what they had found at his house, and then they were off.

They rode their mounts hard; even so, a little more than two hours had elapsed since the inventor had left. He sighed in relief when they rounded the bend and the house rose on the horizon before them, many of the windows ablaze with light. There had been a part of him that was afraid the building would no longer be there, having been torched or otherwise destroyed.

You’re being a little paranoid, don’t you think? he thought.

Be that as it may, it was a night where nothing seemed to be following patterns of logic. If that had been the case, they would have found Marty and Jules perfectly safe. Marty would have probably complained about the baby, and Clara would have realized how foolish she had been with worries that something would go wrong.

“I’m going to check on my wife,” Doc said as he drew Galileo to a stop in back of the house. “She’s probably worried herself sick.”

“That’s fine,” Marshall Strickland said. “Henry and I will have a look out here.”

Doc left the lawmen behind, each armed with a lantern and a pistol, and hurried up the stairs to the back door. He knocked on it hard and loud, and when he heard the footsteps reach the door, called out, “It’s Emmett, Clara.”

There came the sound of bolts sliding back and the door creaked open a quarter inch. Doc found himself looking at the dark barrel of a gun, as well as his wife’s wide eyes peering over the edge of the door. She sighed once she saw who it was and allowed the door to swing open all the way while the gun fell down to her side.

“Oh, Emmett, thank goodness! Did you get the sheriff?”

“And the Marshall. They’re outside looking around right now.” He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. “No one has come by, have they?”

“Not a soul.”

“Is Marty awake yet?”

“Yes...or, rather, he was awake. He may be sleeping right now.”

The news made Doc a little bit uneasy. “Have you been able to rouse him since then?”

“I haven’t tried. I have been sitting in the room with him, however,” she added. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Doc slipped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Clara clung to him a moment. “What did the lawmen say?” she asked, her eyes slightly frantic. “What did they say about our baby?”

“Nothing, so far, but there was little I could tell them. We need to talk to Marty. What did he have to say?”

“Not anything very helpful,” she said, a note of bitterness in her voice, not elaborating beyond that.

Clara remained behind, wanting to prepare some coffee for their guests outside, and the scientist felt it wise that she remain near one of the doors. The clocks in the parlor struck midnight as he passed the smattering of broken glass that still remained near the front door and walked down the hallway towards Marty’s room.

The teen’s door was open, and the lamp that Clara had lit earlier was still burning. Marty was lying on the bed flat on his back, the damp washrag draped over his eyes. Doc crossed the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching over and removing the washcloth from his friend’s face. Marty opened his eyes before Doc could do anything else.

“I heard you come in,” the teen said softly. “I’m sorry, Doc.”

Doc ignored the apology. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll live.” Marty sat up slowly. Although his face paled a little, he gave no other sign that he was in any discomfort. “Clara said there was a fire?”

“Yes.” Doc summarized their arrival back to the house. Marty looked troubled. Before he could ask his friend about what had led to him being found in the bedroom, Marty told him what he could recall about Bowie Tannen and the robbery.

“I can’t remember what happened with Jules, though,” he said, his voice cracking. “I know Clara wants to kill me for that, but I just can’t remember!”

Doc sighed. He could certainly understand his wife’s frustration on that matter, but he couldn’t hold it against Marty, either. “It’s the blow to your head,” he said. “Amnesia relating to the moments leading up to that is fairly common in head injuries. You still don’t remember everything before the accident with the train, do you?”

“No,” Marty admitted, rubbing his eyes. “But this is just way more important, you know?”

Heavy footsteps drew Doc’s attention away from his friend and over to the door. A moment later the marshall was in the doorway. He nodded towards Marty. “Mr. Eastwood,” he said. “I hear you got knocked in the head.”

“Yeah,” Marty said warily. Doc had noticed a while ago that his friend was rather ill at ease around the lawman. He suspected the fact that the marshall was the grandfather of Marty’s high school vice principal -- and a nemesis of sort -- had something to do with it. “I’m oka-- all right, though.”

Strickland’s eyes flickered over to Doc. “Can I ask him some questions?”

“Of course,” Doc said. He left the bedside and walked over to stand near the door. Marshall Strickland pulled the chair over from the desk and sat down next to the bed. “What can you tell me about what happened?” he asked the teen.

Marty once more summarized the events of the evening, the expression on his face pained when he admitted he couldn’t remember what happened after they had gone up the stairs. He had just finished when the sheriff suddenly came in. He looked grave as he slipped past Doc and made a beeline for Strickland.

“Marshall, I found this on the front porch,” he said, handing the lawman a tattered piece of paper. “Looks like a ransom note to me.”

Doc felt his heart surge into his throat at the statement. Marty’s face went so white that the inventor thought he might faint for a moment. “What?” he heard the teen whisper.

Marshall Strickland silently read the note and then looked up at his deputy. “All right,” he said gruffly. “Go to town and send some more men out here.”

“Can I see it?” Doc asked as the sheriff left the room again. His voice came out much calmer than he would have thought.

The lawman passed the parchment to Doc. The scientist read the words, printed in a poorly spelled, childish hand.

I HAV YOR SUN. MET ME AT SONASH RAVEEN BRIG AT 3 O CLOK TONIT WIT $100 TO SEE HIM AGAINE.

Doc reread the words again, slower this time. “What does it say?” Marty asked, leaning forward as if he was about to spring to his feet. “What did that bastard say?”

Doc read the message aloud in a soft voice, then added a question to the Marshall, who was already standing. “Do you think that he will harm Jules?”

“Yes,” Marty said immediately before the lawman could answer. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the alabaster shade of his face making the two bruises he had sustained in his tussle with Bowie Tannen stand out even more. Once again, Doc had the worry at the back of his mind that his friend might faint, especially if he stood anytime soon. “That jackass tried to kill me already tonight. He has it out for you, Doc, and his age doesn’t matter. He’s a Tannen.”

Marshall Strickland arched one eyebrow at the teen before turning back to the man of the house. “Only a monster would kill an innocent baby. However, if this boy is anything like his father, I think we need to take this very, very seriously.”

Doc leaned back against the wall, suddenly weak. He wondered if Clara knew about the note yet, and then realized that it was doubtful. If she had, she would have been in the room with them. It was not something Doc knew he could keep from his spouse, but a few moments more of delay would not hurt her. “I’ll need to meet him, then.”

“You won’t go alone,” Marty said. “I’m coming with you.” He stood. His face turned a delicate shade of green and he staggered a little to one side. Strickland caught him by the shoulder.

“No,” Doc said at once, shaking his head. “You can hardly stand. Besides, it’s too dangerous.”

Marty wobbled where he stood a moment and took several deep breaths. “I need to come, Doc,” he said softly, taking a step away from Strickland’s helpful hand. “This whole thing is my fault. If you and Clara had been here, he might not have Jules right now. Besides, you can’t go alone! You could be walking right into a trap.”

“I agree about that,” Marshall Strickland said. “Henry or myself should go with you.”

“No,” Doc said. “Absolutely not. He wants us to meet next to the ravine. What’s to stop him from throwing my son over the side of it if he sees that I’ve brought the law into it?”

Marty started to shake his head, but seemed to think better of it and stopped. “Doc, he doesn’t say anything in that letter about coming alone, not contacting the cops, any of that,” he said, forgetting to cut back on the future slang with the marshall standing right there in earshot. “So you don’t know for sure that he’ll do that.”

“I believe it is implied,” Doc said tersely. “I need to go by myself.”

He heard a footsteps approaching from down the hall and turned quickly. Clara came into sight seconds later, a tray carried in her hands. On it were a few slices of bread, a small saucer of butter, a steaming pot of coffee or tea, and four empty cups. “I thought you men might like a snack at this late hour,” she said, her voice filled with a forced cheer, carefully setting the tray down on Marty’s desk. When no one immediately spoke, she focused her red-rimmed eyes on the three faces in the room. Her already pale face suddenly went even more ashen. “Is something wrong?”

Doc cleared his throat uncomfortably and glanced down at the letter in his hand. “The sheriff found this at the front door,” he said, holding it out to his wife.

Clara plucked it from his fingers, her forehead puckering in confusion, and turned her eyes upon it. Her hand went to her throat as she reached the end of it, her brow smoothing out and her eyes growing as wide as saucers.

“Oh!” she cried, a small, pained noise. She swayed suddenly and Doc reached over and grabbed her around the waist. The marshall also sprung forward with surprising swiftness. Together, the two men helped Clara over to the chair near the bed and lowered her into it. For a moment Doc feared she might faint and pushed her forward so that she bent towards her knees. She raised her head a moment later, her skin still chalk white.

“What is he going to do to our baby?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” Marty said, looking steadier in that moment than Clara did. “We’re gonna get him back.”

“No, I am,” Doc said. “Me. No one else.” Seeing the marshall open his mouth to protest, he added firmly, “I am not going to have anyone else put in danger over this matter! Marshall, if you would be so kind as to get someone to unlock the bank, I would appreciate it. I need to make a withdrawal.”

That said, before anyone could voice another objection, Doc gave his wife’s shoulder a squeeze and hastily left the room. He checked his pocket watch as he walked briskly down the hallway. It was 12:32 A.M. He had two and a half hours before he had to make the meeting. Surely, in that time, he could come up with a way to get his son back safely.

* * *

Doc was making a mistake.

Marty felt this in every fiber of his being. Unfortunately, when he put his mind to it, Doc could be even more stubborn than the teen, and this was definitely one of those times. He had recognized that steely look in the inventor’s eye. Nothing Marty said or did would convince him that it would be much wiser to meet Bowie with someone for backup. Going alone was ridiculously dumb and naive. Doc had no idea what that kid was capable of.

However, Marty knew when he was outnumbered -- or up against a battle he could not win. So instead of running after Doc to plead his case, Marty remained in his room with Clara and the Marshall. Strickland left right after Doc, probably intending to argue the wisdom of having someone from the local police tail him. Clara did not move from where she was sitting, her face looking aged beyond her years as she stared at the wall of the room. The expression on her face reminded Marty of a deer he had once caught in his headlights and almost hit.

“Clara, it’ll be okay,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster, feeling as dizzy and out of sort as as he did then. “Jules will be back. We’re not going to let that asshole win.”

Clara blinked a couple times and turned her face towards Marty. “Emmett is a fool to go after him alone,” she said in a flat, dead voice.

Marty sat back down on the edge of his bed, his head thanking him the moment he did so. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But he’s not going to listen to anyone point out the flaws in that.”

Clara shook her head in a dazed sort of way and stood slowly. “I should...I need to do something,” she murmured, distracted. “I need to speak to him.”

Marty watched her with concern as she left and sighed. He didn’t bother telling her his intention -- not when she might try to stop him. Better that no one know.

The teen stretched back out on his bed and closed his eyes, never feeling more awake in his entire life. When he heard someone come in several minutes later, however, he feigned sleep as best he could. He felt a touch on his forehead, on the lump barely hidden by his bangs, and choked back a low groan. The ploy worked, however; moments later he heard the footsteps -- Doc’s? -- leave his bedside. There was the faint creak of hinges as his door was pulled shut, but with the absence of the click of the latch, Marty knew that it remained open a crack or two. All the better for someone to look in on him. The lamp, too, remained lit in the room -- he could still see the glow of it through his eyelids.

Marty rolled onto his side, away from the door, and opened his eyes. No one would be able to see that he was awake from this angle, and in spite of the adrenaline and determination that was bubbling through his veins, he was worried that if he lay in the room without distraction, eyes closed, he could wind up falling asleep. (It had, after all, been quite a long day.) That wouldn’t do.

Marty reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, thumbing open the lid and setting it in the small hollow between the two pillows of his bed. Here, he could easily see the time but someone peering at him from the hallway would not.

He heard voices murmuring from other parts of the house, and two other times someone looked in on him. Marty hastily would close his eyes with the sound of footsteps and masquerade sleep. The second time that happened -- around one thirty, according to the timepiece on the bed -- Marty was treated to a brief conversation.

“I want you to check on him every hour or so,” he heard Doc said in a low voice, just from outside his door. “I don’t think he’ll be sliding into a coma, but any head injury should be watched.”

“Should I wake him, then?” Clara asked, sounding weary to the bone.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. If he’s asleep, then we know where he is, and I’m sure that it will help that bump on his head feel a lot better.”

The bump in question gave a quick twinge at those words, causing Marty to grimace.

“Emmett, why can’t I come with you?” Clara asked, her tone filled with anguish. The voices grew softer and, based on the footsteps, Marty immediately surmised they were walking towards the foyer, away from his room.

“You know why,” Doc said. “It’s too dangerous. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on Marty. I’ll be back as soon as I can -- and with Jules. That is my promise.”

His voice was grave. The statement was followed by the sound of a door opening a closing. Doc, Marty gathered, had left the building.

The teen’s eyes drifted to the timepiece inches from his nose. 1:41 A.M. He would have to wait ten, twenty minutes. The time seemed insurmountable, particularly since his body was literally stiff from the tension of remaining in the same position for almost an hour. He missed the luxury of tossing and turning, as he was free to do if he was not trying to pretend he was dead asleep at any given moment.

Rationalizing that he would be able to hear any approach towards his room in time, Marty allowed himself to move, rolling onto his back. The ache in his head spiked up briefly as he resettled himself. The teen sighed, reaching up to gently rub his forehead. He hoped it wouldn’t become a handicap for him in what he was planning to do. Damn Tannens and their perchance for wrecking havoc!

The time trickled by too slowly. Marty finally sat up, unable to stand it any longer, and took a look at the clock. Only five minutes had passed. Close enough, he reasoned. He quietly slipped off the bed, having to bend over and clutch the footboard for a moment as the pain in his head racketed up. After several deep breaths, he felt steady enough to let go and take a tentative, tottering step across the floor. His boots. He needed his boots first, then a coat, as it was chilly out at this hour of the night.

Marty quietly fumbled around in the dimly lit room, pulling on those articles of clothing, feeling lightheaded as he worked. He ignored it, even though the ache in his head made it somewhat difficult. Clara’s home brewed tea remedy had either worn off or failed to really work in the first place.

When his boots were on and his coat buttoned, Marty hesitated. He didn’t have his hat, but that would require going out to the foyer and snagging it, and he wasn’t sure if he would run into Clara out there. Besides, the last thing he felt like doing was place anything on his head, what with the bruise and headache. He felt as if he was forgetting something, however, and that feeling caused him to pause, head tilted to one side, as he perched on the edge of the bed. His eyes roamed around the room...and then came to rest on an object that lay upon the desk top.

A gun, Marty thought, reaching out for the weapon. He picked it up, weighing it in the palm of his hand a moment, and then checked the chambers. All six were filled with bullets.

“I’d better take this,” he murmured aloud. He made sure that it wasn’t cocked, and then shoved it in the waistband of his pants. He didn’t know where a holster might be in the house, unfortunately.

Armed now, Marty stood, ignoring a shaky, rubbery feeling in his limbs -- nerves, he rationalized immediately -- and made his way over to one of his bedroom windows. He unlatched the pane of glass and slid it up. There was the faintest squeak from the frame as it went. Marty exhaled softly as it reached the top. He carefully slipped outside, the night air cool on his face, easing his feet down as softly as he could on the porch floorboards.

Once safely outside, Marty made his way over to the porch railing, swung himself over, and dropped gently to the ground. Then, ignoring the feisty ache in his head, he hurried towards the pasture, eager to grab a horse and head off to the ravine to help Doc.

* * *

After he left the house, Doc rode quickly into town, paying a brief visit to his business before continuing on to the bank. Marshall Strickland had kept his word, and when he arrived there, the sheriff was waiting for him, along with the bewildered bank owner, Morton Davis. The short, squat Davis had been hastily roused by Sheriff Rodgers at home and told to open the bank for a quick transaction. He demanded to know the reasons for it as soon as Doc arrived, but the scientist brushed him off, figuring that if the sheriff hadn’t told him anything, there was no reason he needed to do that. He balked equally at the sum Doc wanted to withdraw.

“A hundred dollars!” he exclaimed in the bank’s dim back room. “What in tarnation do you need to purchase at this hour of the night with a hundred dollars?”

“Never you mind, Morton,” the sheriff said. “Emmett, you have that?”

Doc nodded. “Barely,” he admitted. The sum in his account was his and Clara’s entire life savings...and most of that money was earmarked for the construction of a new time machine. He hated to think how much it would set that project back if he lost it all. On the other hand, it would be a small price to pay if Jules could be retrieved whole and safe.

The banker grumbled but several minutes later he returned with an envelope filled with stacks of greenbacks. After pausing long enough to count out the money, Doc thanked him, hurried outside, and placed the money in Newton’s saddlebag. He was about to head off towards the ravine when he felt someone grab the back of his coat. Doc turned and saw the sheriff standing there, his face serious.

“You’re not really goin’ out there by your lonesome, are you?” he asked.

“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” Doc said curtly. “I don’t want to risk this Bowie character doing anything rash if he thinks I’ve brought the law with me.”

“Will he be there alone?” the sheriff asked.

“Clint didn’t say anything about him having a partner.”

“Perhaps not, but that don’t mean much. His father did most of his killin’ alone, but he had his own gang. The kid may have recruited others to help him out.”

The idea of a preteen operating as the head of a gang was almost too ridiculous to consider. Doc would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious to him. He sighed instead and reached up to pull himself into the saddle. “I guess I’ll just have to take the chance,” he said, settling himself on the horse. “Let me do this my way, all right? I need to do it this way.”

There was no way he could tell the lawmen, of course, about the potential ramifications their assistance could cause…for this kidnapping had not happened in the original timeline, and if one of them was to get hurt or killed in any kind of confrontation, it could have grave consequences on the space-time continuum. For that reason, and that reason primarily, Doc was at loath to allow anyone to back him up. He could only hope that Bowie Tannen was without any help himself, that he had operated alone. If not, Doc suspected the resolution to the meeting would not work out in his favor.

He pushed the dark thoughts out of his head, determined not to dwell, and rode off before the sheriff could try and stop him again. The night air had an undercurrent of chill to it as it slapped at his face, but Doc was vaguely aware of it at best. His mind went back to the letter that had been left behind, to the look on Marty’s face when he spoke about his scarce memories regarding Bowie, and the look of utter horror and despair that Clara had worn on her own face since they had discovered their son was missing. He would give anything to never see his wife look like that again.

As he got closer to the ravine, Doc slowed down his horse a little. It was not quite two-thirty in the morning; he had a little time to make his approach without alerting the criminal in advance. Unfortunately, the location of the ravine made it difficult to sneak up without being seen -- especially on clear nights like this. There was not a full moon out, but the stars alone gave out enough light to see by without relying on a lantern.

For the last quarter mile, Doc dismounted and walked his horse as quietly as he could manage, following the train tracks as they veered off in that direction to the ravine’s bridge. The bridge over Shonash Ravine had been completed about one year prior, amid some fanfare in the town. The inventor had felt bittersweet about the whole thing, he recalled, having been reminded of the matter that he and Marty were to use that route as their way out of this time. However, if things had not gone as wrong as they had, Doc knew that he might never have seen Clara again, would not be here trying to get his infant son back. His life would be quite different...and perhaps unhappier, worse off, as a result.

When Doc came upon the ravine, he paused a moment and scanned the terrain anxiously. The bridge span was empty. There were no horses, no souls, waiting around, nor was there any brush behind which someone could conceal him or herself. Doc sighed softly, unsure if he was disappointed or relieved. He continued forward, stopping at the bridge’s sign that announced this was the Shonash Ravine Bridge, and tethered Newton to one of the posts. Then he carefully removed his modified shotgun from where he had secured it in the saddle. The firearm would be all but useless to him, he knew -- if Bowie didn’t make him immediately discard it, there was still no way that Doc could justify using it on the young outlaw, what with possible ramifications to future history and all -- but he still felt better having it in his hand.

He waited, standing near the horse, his back to the ravine, eyes narrowed in scrutiny over the immediate area. But as the seconds and minutes ticked away on his pocket watch, all remained quiet.

And then, suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps.

* * *

This headache was killer.

Marty plodded along on foot, one hand gripping the reins of the horse and the other braced against his forehead. Unfortunately, clasping his head did nothing to stop the pain that had spiked up while he had been hurrying towards the train tracks and ravine on horseback. It was all the bouncing around, Marty thought, not blaming the horse in the least. But even slowing the animal down to a walk didn’t help matters any. When he started to feel like he was either going to fall off or throw up from the gentle motion of the mount, Marty dismounted and continued on foot, half hanging onto Galileo’s stirrups for support.

I shouldn’t be out here, Marty realized, pausing a moment to cling to the horse as the ground underneath his boots seemed to tilt. He took a couple shallow breaths, nausea twisting his gut as the dizziness increased. He hadn’t felt this bad when he left. Why was he feeling like this now, out in the middle of nowhere? No one would miss him if he collapsed out here...maybe the horse and that was it.

He was tired...it felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Moving at a staggering walk was as difficult as walking through chest-deep water. If only he could take a break, lie down for a few minutes, close his eyes....

Get a grip, McFly, he told himself firmly. Marty knew there was no way he could do that. He didn’t want to risk passing out and becoming food for the vultures or wolves.

After what seemed like an eternity, the vertigo diminished enough to allow him to lift his head off the soft flank of the horse and continue plodding forward. The train tracks that led to the ravine were to his left; had those not been there to follow, Marty might’ve wound up lost and left to wander aimlessly around for days. He often forgot how wild and unsettled Hill Valley was now, still used to the streets of suburbia and close knit civilization of his own time.

Several minutes later, Marty stopped again and raised his head from its study of the dusty earth. The starlight above provided enough light for him to see by, though the features of the landscape around him were somewhat blurred, as if he had tears in his eyes. The pain in his head was bad, but it wasn’t quite bad enough to cry over; the teen had the disquieting feeling that the blurriness was a side effect of his wicked headache. Naturally, that made him feel more anxious.

The view, from what he saw, was simply flat land with the train tracks stretching out as far as the eye could see to meet the horizon. There did seem to him, however, a dark sort of cluster of shadows near the horizon. Marty blinked several times, in an attempt to clear his vision, but the sight did not change. Unless his eyes and head injury were deceiving him, perhaps that fuzzy blackness ahead was real and was the ravine. Encourage, he pushed his pace a little, eager to get there before Bowie made his appearance.

Marty had left his pocketwatch back in his bedroom. Therefore, he had no idea how much time had passed since he had snuck out of the house. His internal sense of time had never been very accurate, and with the headache and dizziness and fighting off nausea, he was even more uncertain as to the hour. He wasn’t sure if he was late or early in his arrival at the ravine...and as he grew closer and the black shadows did as well, he caught sight of the sign that announced the bridge -- and a lone figure standing near the edge of the cliff.

Marty stopped, squinting ahead at the figure. His vision was blurring again, making it impossible for him to see the features of the person. He was tall, that much was certain, and it was a man. There was a flicker of movement as the figure turned slightly.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was sharp, hissed in no more than a whisper, but as familiar to Marty as his own voice. He let go of Galileo and straightened up as much as he could, determined not to show the least bit of his weakness.

“You need help, Doc,” he said simply. “There’s no way in hell that I’m gonna let you go out here alone.”

Gravel crunched as the inventor came forward. The brim of his hat hid his face from Marty’s view, keeping it sheltered from the blue-white light of the stars. “You’ve already done enough, Marty -- and you’re hurt. You shouldn’t be here.”

Marty drew in a quick, shallow breath, half from a stab of renewed pain right at the point where he had been struck, half to fuel a rebuttal to Doc. “I haven’t done much of anything,” he said, “except to let Jules get snatched. That’s my fault, Doc.”

“No. Had Clara or I been home, the outcome may have been the same...or worse.”

“That’s not what Clara thinks,” Marty said, half to himself, remembering the look on her face as she had looked at him earlier in the evening. And how could he forget that slap to the face?

“Clara is upset and in shock,” Doc said, not denying the teen’s statement. “She isn’t thinking logically right now.”

Marty lifted his shoulders in a tired, halfhearted shrug, not entirely buying Doc’s explanation. There were more pressing concerns, however, for him to dawdle over that one. “Why didn’t you let the marshall go with you?”

“I had my reasons,” Doc said evenly. “It’s too much of a risk to the space-time continuum, you realize.” He turned his head suddenly. “I hear someone,” he said in a low voice.

Marty listened himself, but all he heard was the faint thud of his heartbeat echoing in his ears in time with his headache. He resisted the urge to groan and sink to the ground on his knees, instead reaching out one hand to grab onto the horse’s stirrups again. “Where?” he managed to ask.

Doc did not answer, taking several step backs and turning to the right. Marty inched forward a little, sliding one hand along the horse’s side until he was able to peer around the animal. He didn’t hear anything at first, but he did see -- or thought he saw -- the vague, shadowy form of a figure approaching, walking near the edge of the cliff. Doc’s hands suddenly tightened around the shotgun that Marty only now noticed he was carrying. “Is that him?” he asked the teen in a low voice.

Marty blinked and squinted. His vision, once more, was shifting in and out of focus a little. That was bad, he thought again. “Uh…I can’t tell,” he admitted. “It’s too...dark.”

The words felt strange on his lips -- heavy and cumbersome. In fact, everything felt very heavy right then -- even the very air. Doc turned his head sharply to look at him. Marty saw the gleam of his wide eyes under the brim of the hat. He looked alarmed.

“Marty, turn around right now and go home,” he said in a soft, urgent voice. “You’re slurring your words. You almost certainly have a concussion.”

“I’m fine,” Marty said, lying through his teeth. He took a step forward to prove this to his friend and only by Doc’s quick reaction was he prevented from pitching to the ground. The inventor’s fingers gripped him tightly by the shoulders.

“Never mind,” Doc muttered. “You won’t make it back in this condition. Go over there and sit down away from the horses. I have to meet him over there.”

Marty wanted to protest this, but he found speaking too difficult right then. Doc saw something in his face that apparently worried him. He handed Marty his rifle, the butt of the weapon aimed up, the mussel down towards the dirt. “Here, lean on this.”

“I can make it there on my own,” Marty managed to say, chagrined. Doc didn’t seem to care, turning and marching over to the figure that had halted near the cliffside. Marty took a step after him and almost immediately fell. A hasty maneuver with the rifle acting as a cane saved him from collapse, but Marty knew he could not follow his friend.

Angry with himself and the fact that Bowie had been the one to cause his condition, he shuffled over to a couple boulders several feet away and eased himself down. The moment he was off his feet, he felt a little better. But all the blinking and squinting in the world did not help remove the fuzziness from his vision as he tried to watch Doc and the figure that could only be Bowie. Damn.

But, fortunately, nothing was hindering his hearing.

“I’m Emmett Brown, the blacksmith,” Marty heard Doc say, stopping about a dozen feet away from both the cliffside and the outlaw. “You must be Bowie.”

* * *

Doc sized up the criminal standing before him. In a first glance, he didn’t look like someone who could have wrought so much havoc in their lives over the last several hours. There was enough light from the stars above to provide the inventor a clear look at the round face, caught on the cusp between child and adolescent, as well as the gun that the kid was holding in one hand. From his stance, Doc could tell that the young outlaw was on edge, suspicious. Doc tried his best to disarm the situation and a potentially itchy trigger finger by forcing a smile as he greeted the kid.

“Are you Bowie Tannen?” he asked, when his greeting prompted no response. “I was to meet him here around this time.”

The kid raked an eye over the scientist’s tall frame. “You’re an old man,” he said bluntly.

“I can assure you that I am who I say I am,” Doc said, not particularly bothered by the jab at his age. He had certainly heard worse. “What else can I give you for proof?”

Bowie did not answer that. “Where’s the money?” he asked.

“In my saddlebag. Where is my son?”

“Nearby.” Bowie did not elaborate. “Give me the money an’ I’ll tell you where he is.”

“What would make you think that I would trust you to do that after everything you’ve done so far?”

Bowie licked his lips and cocked back the hammer of the gun. “I don’t care much if you do,” he said. “I’m just gonna shoot you and take the money.”

Doc was not surprised; in fact, he had expected such behavior from a Tannen, though the fact that this was more a child than adult made the matter all the more unnerving. Of course, Bowie had already committed attempted murder, assault, and kidnapping just this evening. Quite the rap sheet for someone almost certainly under the age of fifteen.

“Why do you want to kill me?” the scientist asked, a morbid curiosity prompting the question as much as the desire to stall for time. “What did I ever do to you?”

“You put my pa in prison,” Bowie said promptly.

Doc didn’t entirely follow the logic. “Buford Tannen was arrested for robbing a stagecoach. Not for anything I did.”

“You cheated my pa,” Bowie said, taking a step closer, his eyes narrowed in a steely glare as he gazed up at Doc. “You cheated death from ‘im twice, ‘least.”

“Who did you hear this from? Your father?”

“I heard from one of Pa’s friends.”

Tannen held a bigger grudge against me than he did Marty? Doc thought in surprise. “No mention of Clint Eastwood?” he asked lightly.

Bowie’s lips came up in a smirk that was eerily reminiscent of his someday grandson, Biff. “I heard ‘bout him from Ma. I’ll take care of him after you. Don’t look like he’s gonna go far now.”

Doc’s eyes flickered over Bowie’s shoulder to where Marty was waiting, perhaps three dozen feet away. The teen’s face was a pale oval against the darker landscape. At least he was still conscious and upright. “I think you’ve done enough to him already. Where is my son? Specifically?”

Bowie did not say anything. The inventor took a step closer, restraining the mighty urge to grab the kid by the shoulders and shake him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

And then, without warning, Bowie suddenly fired his gun.

The weapon was directed right at Doc’s chest, and the impact of the bullet was more shocking than painful. The blow was powerful enough to throw the scientist off his feet, propelling him back to the ground. He landed hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. Stunned, Doc lay where he had fallen, Bowie looming over him with a glow of malicious satisfaction in his eyes. Doc heard a startled, choked cry, and what sounded like footsteps running.

Bowie glanced up. His eyes widened and he started to take a step back and raise his weapon, but Marty -- even suffering from a concussion -- was faster, no doubt driven by pure adrenaline and anger. The butt of the rifle swung out over Doc and caught the young outlaw square in the face.

Bowie screamed, the high pitched sound of a child. He stumbled back, his hands flying up to his face. His gun was dropped, forgotten. Doc caught a glimpse of Marty’s white, tense face as the teen hit the kid again with the rifle, this time on the side of the head. Bowie fell backwards to the dirt, moaning in pain. Marty hit him one more time, and the outlaw was suddenly still.

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the sound of Marty gasping for breath. The teen stared down at Bowie a moment, and then turned to Doc, the rifle still gripped in hand. His eyes were wide open, horrified, and he dropped to his knees next to the inventor’s side.

“Doc! Oh, Jesus Christ, you’ve been shot!”

Doc raised a hand, trying to draw his own breath back into his lungs. He couldn’t speak, not right then. Marty’s hands came forward, shaking, fumbling with the button’s on Doc’s overcoat. The inventor heard his friend continue to pant, clearly panicking.

“Marty….” Doc wheezed at the attempt to speak, struggling to roll onto his side. Marty’s hands prevented him from doing so.

“Calm down, Doc, just calm down. We gotta get you to a doctor. We gotta….” Marty shut his eyes a moment and took a deep breath, swaying a little on his knees. “Get someone, we gotta get someone,” he mumbled.

Doc drew a shallow breath, exhaled, and swallowed hard. “Don’t worry about me,” he managed to whisper.

Marty was as white as a proverbial ghost, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Don’t worry about you?” he echoed, his voice cracking. “You were shot, Doc. Jesus!”

Doc reached up and carefully unbuttoned his coat and his vest, and then lifted up his shirt. Under it was a sheet of metal with a wicked dent in it from where the bullet had struck -- a few inches below his heart. The improvised vest that he had cobbled together in the livery stable in town -- simply donned as a safety precaution, recalling Marty’s stunt with Buford almost two years earlier -- for the meeting had worked.

Marty stared down at the iron surface for a moment, blinking a few times. Comprehension was slow in coming. The teen reached up and ran a finger over the dent that the bullet had done to the armor.

“You’re okay?” he whispered.

Doc nodded. He sat up slowly, feeling weak and dizzy. He was not the only one. He heard a soft sigh to his right, a sound of profound weariness, and turned his head just in time to see Marty pitch to one side and hit the ground. It was fortunate for him that he was merely kneeling, not standing. Between the concussion and the shock of the last few minutes, it was perhaps inevitable that he had fainted.

Doc remained sitting for a minute or two, trying to catch his breath. When he felt capable, he turned to check Marty. His breathing was steady enough, but Doc got no reaction when he gently shook the teen’s shoulder. Fortunately, when Marty had toppled to the dirt, he had landed in such a way that the bruise on his head from his earlier encounter with Bowie had not been struck anew.

As concerned as he was about his friend, there were a couple more pressing matters. Doc cautiously got to his feet, staggering a little, a dull ache now throbbing in his ribcage in the vicinity of where the bullet had struck his cobbled together armor. He knelt down, gently plucked the rifle from Marty’s limp hand, and walked a few steps over to where Bowie Tannen lay. Doc stooped over with a grimace to pick up the young outlaw’s gun, and then turned and threw it over the edge of Shonash Ravine.

With the weapon disposed of, Doc looked down at the kid crumpled at his feet. He nudged him not so gently with the muzzle of the rifle. The kid felt like a limp, dead weight, and his face was already showing signs of swelling from the blows that Marty had rained down on him. Kneeling rather awkwardly, Doc reached out with his free hand and picked up Bowie’s hand, feeling around for a pulse. It was strong and stable, as was the kid’s breathing. There would be no long term damage, Doc hoped. If this kid was the future grandfather of Biff Tannen, as the inventor suspected, then it was imperative there were no serious consequences to this encounter. He was fortunate that Marty had not fired the rifle at him instead.

Doc left the outlaw’s side and hurried over to the horses tethered nearby. He yanked a coil of rope from the saddlebag and returned to where Bowie lay. WIthin minutes, Doc had bound the kid’s wrists and ankles together, ensuring that he would not be able to escape or cause further harm. By the time he had finished, Bowie was starting to come around amid groans and incoherent mumblings. Smiling grimly, Doc cocked the rifle and touched the muzzle of the weapon to Bowie’s forehead.

“Time to wake up,” he said gruffly.

Bowie opened his eyes, one of which was already swelling shut. He squinted, clearly disoriented and confused. Doc continued to speak. “I need to know where my son is.”

Bowie blinked once as comprehension dawned on him. He tried to speak and started to choke. Doc watched as the kid turned his head and spit out a mouthful of blood and a tooth or two. The scientist couldn’t help but grimace at the sight. He wasn’t very sympathetic, however.

“Go to hell,” the kid mumbled when he had emptied out his mouth.

“I don’t think so,” Doc said. “You have three choices: You can tell me where my son is and leave without harm. Or I could shoot you right now. Or else you can take a trip down to the floor of the ravine.”

Doc, of course, had no intent to do any of those things, but Bowie didn’t know it. The kid struggled to move and realized, for the first time, that he was trussed up as securely as a holiday turkey. His good eye widened a little.

“I’m going to ask you again,” Doc said softly. “Where is my son?”

The scientist watched as Bowie fought a brief internal struggle, no doubt sizing up his situation. Doc waited without saying a word, though he did apply a bit more pressure on the kid’s head with the tip of his rifle. Finally, the kid spoke, his words slightly slurred from a swiftly swelling lip.

“Carson Spur...the silver mine buildin’ at Carson Spur.”

Doc knew the site well; he and Marty had camped out there the night before they had made the attempt to go back to the future. It was three miles away. “Is he there alone?” he asked.

Bowie hesitated, clearly not wanting to provide an answer and cooperate. However, he seemed to understand that he had few options beyond that. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

“Thank you.” Doc stepped away and allowed the muzzle of the rifle to drop to the ground. He backed away from the tethered Bowie, who was already straining at his bonds, and went over to Marty’s side again. He did not want to leave his friend unconscious in the vicinity of a criminal, but didn’t think it was possible to bring him along to the spur in that condition, either.

“Marty,” Doc said softly, lest Bowie overhear his real name. He knelt down beside his friend and gently patted his cheek, hoping to rouse him. Marty responded with only the faintest of groans. Doc set down the rifle and rolled his friend onto his back, then hoisted him up into a sitting position. Marty’s head drooped forward like that of a stringless puppet.

Doc grabbed him under the arms and dragged him over to the cluster of boulders nearby, propping him up in a seated position. Then he went over to his saddlebag, removed a canteen of water, and brought that back to the his friend’s side. He took out a bandana from his pocket, poured a splash of water on the fabric, and dabbed the bandana on Marty’s cheeks and forehead. The teen groaned. Encouraged, Doc slopped more water on the bandana and pressed it to the bump on Marty’s head. The almost-nineteen-year-old stirred, raising a hand to feebly brush at the wet handkerchief.

“Marty?” Doc called softly.

Marty’s eyes fluttered open, glazed and unfocused. Doc gently took his friend’s chin in hand and turned his head so that he was facing the inventor. “Are you with me?” he asked.

“I dunno.” Marty sounded tentative and groggy. He fumbled around with the damp handkerchief, slipping his hand over it. Doc removed his own once his friend had a handle on it.

“Look up at me,” he said.

Marty raised his eyes and looked the inventor directly in the face. Without a source of light to give him a better look, Doc could not get a clear idea if the earlier head injury had caused any serious damage since. “How is your vision?” he asked instead. “Is it clear? Blurry?”

“It’s dark,” Marty said. “I dunno. My head is killing me, though.” He looked away from his friend, for the first time seeming to realize they were not having this discussion in the confines of a bedroom or home environment. “Where are we?”

“Shonash Ravine. You fainted after assaulting Bowie for trying to kill me. I’ve got him restrained now, but I didn’t want to leave you here unconscious with him alone.”

“Thanks.” Marty sounded distracted. He turned back to Doc. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To get Jules. Bowie didn’t bring him along.”

“Then let me go with you.”

“Marty--”

“I need to go with you, Doc.”

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere but straight back to the house. Someone needs to let the authorities know where Bowie is.”

“If I’m with you, you can keep an eye on me,” Marty said, sitting forward. “You really think it’s a good idea to send me off somewhere alone?”

Doc almost ground his teeth in frustration. His friend had a very good point. “Marty--”

Marty slowly climbed to his feet, staggering a little as he stepped away from the boulder. He pressed the damp handkerchief to his bump and closed his eyes for a moment, his face going a sickly white. Doc reached one hand out to him, ready to steady him if he started to sway, but a moment later Marty’s eyes opened again. Although his face was still pale, he remained upright.

“Where is he?” Marty asked.

Doc glanced over at the tethered outlaw. “The abandon silver mine. Do you remember where that is? We camped out there the night before we were going to...catch the train.”

“I’ll follow you,” Marty said. He turned and walked -- slowly -- towards Galileo waiting nearby.

* * *

Doc was looking up when he heard the loud crack, followed immediately by a sound of something large crashing down. A brief gust of air billowed into his face, filled with enough dust to cause a coughing fit. He didn’t know what had happened at first.

“Marty!” he called when he had stopped choking on the saturated air. “Marty, what happened?”

Silence greeted his query. Doc reached into his pocket and withdrew one of the last matches he had, striking it against one of the wooden posts nearby. In the quick, initial flare of the flame, Doc saw a whirlwind of dust, and a large pile of wooden debris in the space just beyond the ladder. They had not been there a moment before.

Doc took several steps forward. “Marty? Marty!”

He heard a faint groan, and the sound of something shifting and moving. Doc let out a quick hiss of pain as the match burned down to his fingertips. He let go of the stick and groped around in his pocket for another one -- just one more -- to help give him more light so he could have a better grasp on what had happened.

“Marty, answer me. Are you all right? What happened?”

There was a lengthy pause, during which Doc’s fingers finally found one more match. He heard the sound of more rustling from nearby, in the direction of that strange pile of debris. “Oh, God,” Marty uttered in a low, groaning voice. There was a tiny flurry of coughing, and then a gusty cry from the baby.

Doc struck the match as he took a step forward. In the light of the single dancing flame, he saw Marty surface from the pile of broken bits of wood, sitting up with a bundle clutched hard to his chest. His face was streaked with dark smears of dust and dirt, a wince of pain twisted his features. The inventor raised his eyes and saw that the loft was no more. The floor had collapsed under Marty’s weight.

“Are you hurt?” Doc asked immediately, stepping over as much of the debris as he could to reach his friend’s side. “Is Jules all right?”

“What do you think?” Marty snapped. He raked his sleeve across his eyes, trying to wipe away the grime, and coughed.

The match reached the end of the stick, singeing Doc’s fingers. The scientist let it drop and bent down to take Jules from Marty’s arms. “Give him to me,” he said over the cries of the baby. The teen surrendered him at once, still seated on the floor with pieces from the loft haphazardly scattered over his lap. Doc’s hands quickly untangled his son from the blanket that had been swaddled tight around him and held him close, tentatively feeling his arms, legs, and joints for any signs of overt injuries. Jules continued to cry lustily, though the pitch and volume did not seem to change as he was being felt over.

“Doc, watch out!” Marty suddenly cried. The inventor raised his head, glanced at his friend, and then turned quickly, half thinking that Bowie Tannen had somehow escaped his bonds and was poised to spring.

Instead, he simply saw that the floor behind him was burning. The discarded match had apparently not been all the way out when it hit the floor, and the dry tinder proved a volatile combination. Already, a small fire was crawling towards the back of Doc’s feet. He stepped forward hastily.

“We need to evacuate,” he said. “This old place will probably go up in minutes. Come on.” Doc turned and went towards the wall in order to slip by the fire before it cut off the corridor from access.

“Wait, Doc!”

Doc glanced over his shoulder at Marty as he struggled to his feet. He had barely stood before he emitted a gasp of pain and staggered, falling to his knees.

“What’s wrong?” Doc asked immediately, his eyes darting towards the crackling flames.

“My ankle. I twisted it or something in the fall.” Marty’s face was a sickly green in the increasing glow of the flames. The teen tried to stand again and once more faltered, sinking back to the ground with a groan. “I can’t walk.”

Doc glanced once more at the fire. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He turned and ran as fast he could through the dust and shadows, towards the ajar door that led outside. Bursting into the fresh night air, he went straight to his waiting horse and emptied his saddlebag enough that he was able to slip Jules into it. The baby was still crying and squirmed as the scientist wrestled him into the bag, but Doc did not want to leave his son out in the open and exposed. Not without supervision. He did not fear Bowie so much as wild animals.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised his son. Jules did not seem to understand, continuing to fuss. It took an enormous act of will for Doc to turn around and leave his son, especially after almost losing him earlier, but he dare not waste anymore time.

When Doc reentered the old mine building just a couple minutes of vacating it, he immediately felt a shift in temperature. The air was warmer from the blazing fire, which cast enough light to give him an unobstructed view of the path before him. He was able to dodge the litter strewn about the floor without wasting much time.

The fire had grown enough that it had completely cut off access to the space where he had left his friend. “Marty!” Doc called, lifting an arm in an effort to deflect some of the heat so that he could peer over the snapping flames. He saw the teen on the floor, coughing from the smoke swiftly filling the space. Raising his bandana up and over his nose and mouth, Doc went to the very edge of the flames, now licking the wall, and leapt over them as best he could.

Marty, thankfully, was still conscious, sitting up and bracing one hand to his left ankle, clad in his boot. His eyes were watering from the thickening haze in the air as he looked up at the inventor. “What--?” he said, the rest of his sentence cut off by a flurry of coughing.

Doc knelt down next to him. “Climb onto my back,” he said. “I’ll get you out of here.”

Marty nodded, ducking his head to cough into the sleeve of his coat. Doc turned around, and felt the teen wrap an arm around his neck seconds later. “Lower,” Doc said, giving his arm a tug. “I need to breathe, too.”

Marty readjusted his grip down, across Doc’s chest. The inventor got to his feet, staggering a little under his friend’s weight upon his back. “Hang on,” he called over his shoulder, tightening his hold on Marty’s legs. The flames, he saw through watering eyes, were beginning to climb the wall and lick the ceiling. Doc drew in a deep breath behind his bandana, his eyes scanning the room for an alternate exit. There were no windows he could see, no other doors. The ladder, which was a few feet away, led just to a gaping hole where the loft had formerly been. The only way out, it looked like, was the same way he had come in -- through the flames.

Damn, Doc thought, a trickle of perspiration running down the side of his face. The room was as hot as an oven now, and more and more smoke began to saturate the air. Marty’s body shook on Doc’s back as he was wracked by a new fit of coughing from the fumes. Doc wished he had told him to cover his own nose and mouth with something.

Doc took another breath of the air, ducked his head, and ran as fast as he could through the wall of fire. The heat seemed unbearable -- and then, abruptly, he was darting through cooler air, towards the open door.

The fresh air that struck his face moments later never felt so cool and delicious.

“Doc!” Marty gasped in his ear. “Doc, your coat!”

Doc turned his head and glimpsed a blur of orange motion. He abruptly let go of Marty’s legs, and the teen dropped to the ground with a startled exclamation. Quickly, Doc stripped his duster off and threw it on the ground, stomping on the material until the fire was smothered. As smoke drifted towards the night sky from the material, Doc glanced at the teen sprawled on the ground. “You all right?”

Marty looked dazed as he sat up. “I...I don’t know....” His voice sounded strange, and a second after uttering the words, he twisted to the left, hung his head over the ground, and threw up. The smoke, the shock, the head injury -- any and all of those was likely responsible.

Averting his eyes from his vomiting friend, Doc turned and made a beeline for Jules, who was sobbing from the fabric prison of the saddlebag. He carefully removed his son and began to pace, rocking the baby as he went. A few minutes later, he glanced over at his friend again. Marty was still on the ground next to the mess he had made, his eyes glassy, his head cradled in his hands. His expression was one of pale pain. Doc gave him only the most cursory of glances right then, too concerned at the moment with the health of his son. He walked a dozen feet away from the horses, near his friend, and set Jules down on the ground, trying to ignore the baby’s crying and squirming in order to access possible physical harm.

“No cuts,” he murmured under his breath as his hands worked. “A bruise here...nothing seems to be broken.”

“Lucky him,” Marty mumbled, cognizant enough of his surroundings to hear his friend. Doc did not look up until he had satisfied himself that his son was scared, hungry, and no doubt exhausted, but whole and otherwise unharmed. Just as he lifted the baby to cradle and comfort on his shoulder, he heard the sound of rapidly approaching hoofbeats. He turned his head, glimpsing the flames as they burst out of windows and doors from the abandoned mine building.

“I think the Calvary is coming,” Marty murmured and, sure enough, Doc saw the newcomer in question was the town sheriff. He let out a deep breath. This nightmare was nearly over.

* * *

Looking back, Marty was not entirely sure how he got back to the house. Shock, he suspected, dulled his memory and senses, which was both a blessing and a curse. The ache in both his head and ankle was consistent and dull -- he almost would have preferred the blessed blanket of unconsciousness and unawareness for a while. Of course, that would have complicated matters a bit, he supposed.

When the sheriff arrived with word that Bowie Tannen had been apprehended at the ravine, Doc called for the lawman’s assistance in getting Marty to his feet and onto one of the horses. Getting onto the animal’s back was painful enough that tears sprung into his eyes, and -- in an effort to not let on how much it hurt -- he bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Riding was almost out of the question, and Doc seemed to know that. He climbed onto the horse before Marty and, with Jules held in one arm and the other hand on the reins, rode them to the farmhouse. The sheriff streaked off towards town to summon the doctor and see about fetching some volunteers to ensure the fire would not spread beyond the building.

The last thing Marty saw, as he dizzily looked behind him, were the flames rising high over the treetops as the abandoned silver mine was consumed with the fire. The glow of it illuminated the sky until they took a turn and it fell from sight. Doc’s pace on Galileo was brisk but not as fast as the teen suspected he actually wanted to go. The vibrations naturally worsened the pain in both his head and ankle, and Marty buried his face into the back of Doc’s coat, groaning softly.

“We’ll be back soon,” Doc said without turning his head.

To Marty, it seemed like a million years before the farmhouse came into view. Doc stopped the horse at the back of the home and hollered aloud for Clara. The woman burst through the back door with wild eyes, stumbling more than once as she ran across the porch and down the steps.

“Emmett, I can’t find Marty, he’s-- oh my goodness! Jules!”

At the sound of his name, the baby -- who had somehow managed to fall asleep on the bumpy trip back -- stirred and began to cry. Doc leaned over to hand the child to her eager hands. Clara clutched him close and began to cry herself, swaying back and forth as she held him tightly. Doc carefully dismounted, and then reached up to help Marty down. Clara didn’t even seem to notice him. Marty had to hold onto his friend hard, dizzy and shaky as he tried to balance on his one good foot.

“Take him into the house -- the baby,” Doc clarified. “He seems all right to me, but I think he’s scared and hungry. I want to have the doctor look him over, though.”

Clara raised her head up from where she had buried it in Jules’ downy dark hair. Her eyes were slow to focus on the teenager. “Marty,” she said, in a perfectly conversational tone of voice. “Where were you?”

Marty opened his mouth to answer her when he was nearly upended by a serious dizzy spell. He hung onto Doc hard, not wanting to topple to the ground, and the inventor slipped a steady arm around him.

“He’s hurt his ankle, and I’m fairly certain he’s already got a concussion from his earlier encounter with Bowie. He’s probably in a bit of shock. I’ll explain everything to you shortly.”

Clara nodded in a dazed, dreamy way and turned her attention back to her son. Doc, in the meantime, did not seem to think Marty could make it up the steps and into the house, even with his help. He leaned over and slid one arm under his knees and the other behind his back, lifting him bodily off his feet. Marty felt mildly offended at this treatment, and tried to protest, but the words fell from his lips too softly and weakly to make much of an impact. Before he knew it, he had been whisked into the house and was in his room, being set down on the bed.

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” he heard himself say aloud, trying to push away Doc’s hands as they touched his head and then his ankle.

“You most certainly are not,” Doc said in a no nonsense tone. “I’m going to have to get your boot off -- your ankle is already swelling up. It’s going to hurt for a moment.”

“Then don’t do it,” Marty said.

Doc’s face was in shadows and impossible to read. “I’m sorry, but it will hurt more later if it isn’t removed now. I don’t think you want us to cut it off. Brace yourself.”

Marty felt the fabric of his pants being rolled up to his knee, and a blinding, hot pain spiked through his left ankle. He moaned, clutching the bedcovers -- and then a blessed, cool blackness washed over him.

* * *

Clara had the odd, disconnected feeling that she was dreaming. It didn’t seem possible, her baby back in her arms, safe and sound. She walked around the kitchen in circles, hugging Jules so tightly that she could feel his heartbeat, rubbing her cheek on his soft, downy hair, damp now from her tears.

This must be a dream, she thought, fearful at the prospect. She did not want to wake from it and face reality, not if it meant living in the nightmare of her baby being in the hands of a madman.

The sound of footsteps approaching from down the hall roused her attention. She shifted her gaze to the door just as Emmett pushed it open. His face was smeared with streaks of soot, his clothes smudged with black stains. Although Jules was here with them now, he looked worried.

“How is Jules?” he asked.

Clara rubbed the baby’s back. “You would know better than I,” she said, her voice sounding weak and breathless to her ears.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I hope the doctor will be here soon.” He walked over to the washbasin and primed the water pump. Clara watched as he bent forward and washed his face under the gush of water. He reached for a hand towel, hanging nearby, and dried his face on it. “Marty is in shock.”

“I daresay we all are,” Clara murmured.

“Touché. He’s in medical shock, though, between the earlier knock to the head and now a possibly broken ankle.”

“Is he in much pain?” The question was uttered automatically. At the moment, Clara could spare no thought towards the young man. The baby, her son -- he was the one who needed every ounce of her attention now.

“He fainted, so at the moment, no, I don’t think he’s in any pain. But I don’t like it.” Emmett’s mouth puckered, as if he tasted something sour, and then he abruptly turned and left the room.

Clara remained standing where she was, Jules whimpering a little in her arms. He was hungry -- she recognized the sound he was making. She wandered from the kitchen, into the parlor, sitting down on the couch in the semidarkness. She carefully unbuttoned her blouse enough to nurse and clutched Jules hard to her chest as he eagerly fed. After a moment of sitting there, hearing nothing more than distant footfalls of Emmett, who sounded as if he was moving around in Marty’s room, she frowned as the worst of the numbness eased up.

There he is again, fretting more over his friend than his son.

She bent her head down, shame suddenly coloring her cheeks at the thought that had popped, unbidden, into her head. Marty McFly was her husband’s best friend. Clara never dreamed of making her husband choose between his old friend and herself or the baby. And yet--

--Yet he has. He has made his choice abundantly clear tonight, she thought, her eyes widening in the dark.

Emmett’s footfalls grew suddenly louder as he left Marty’s room and went down the hall, towards the entryway and the parlor beyond. “Clara?” he called.

“In here, Emmett.”

The scientist’s shadow filled the doorway a moment later. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Feeding the baby. Did you need something?”

“Yes, but I suppose it can wait until you’re done.”

“What is it you need me to do with Marty?” Her voice carried a trace of bitterness in it that Clara had failed to banish.

Emmett was silent for a moment. “Are you angry with him, Clara? I know he probably caused you considerable worry when you found him missing--”

Clara was unable to restrain the snort that escaped her nose. “No, Emmett, I am not angry with him for that.”

Emmett’s shadow shifted faintly. “He was the one to save Jules’ life tonight, you know.”

“Oh? It seems the least he could do after he allowed him to be taken in the first place.”

The silence from her husband was longer this time, more weighted. “Clara, you cannot blame him for that. It could have happened even if all of us were here.”

“Perhaps.” The word was uttered with little conviction. Emmett trod deeper into the room, sitting on the ottoman nearby. He leaned forward until Clara could see his face, which was quite grave.

“It is not Marty’s fault, what happened tonight. It is not your fault. If you must place the blame on anyone, do it on Bowie Tannen. Or even myself. The matter he was so angry about started with me and his father, after all. Marty, in my opinion, more than paid the price tonight and did what he could to keep our son safe. He was the one who allowed Bowie to be captured at the ravine, and almost certainly saved my life. He was the one who climbed into the loft to get Jules, only to have the whole thing cave in under his feet. Not me.”

Clara had to let the words sink in. “He did that?”

“Yes. If anything, we owe him right now. Not the other way around.”

“You seem an awful lot more concerned over him than your son right now.”

“I am,” Emmett said, rather bluntly. “If Jules had sustained the same injuries tonight, I would be a nervous wreck. He seems unharmed except for hunger, exhaustion, and a few bruises. Not so for Marty, and he is my responsibility while he’s here.”

“I know,” Clara said. “You’ve said this before.”

“Maybe it bears saying again, after tonight.”

Clara once more bowed her head, unable to meet her husband’s wounded gaze. “I’m sorry, Emmett,” she said in a low voice. “It has been...unbearable, this night.”

Emmett’s warm hand suddenly squeezed her shoulder. “I know. But it is almost over, and things could have been much, much worse. We’re safe now. Everyone is safe now...I hope.”