..."Home is a long way away," Marty heard someone say, right behind him. He spun around, but no one was there.

"What?" he called, his throat aching as he spoke in a normal tone. "Who's there?"

No one answered. Marty held still for a moment, swaying from side to side. He really was in bad shape. It was very tempting to sink to the ground into oblivion, but he continued moving forward, out of town.

It was a few minutes later when he heard the voice again. This time it was laughing softy. "What's so funny?" Marty cried, glancing behind him. No one was there.

"You," the voice answered. "Are you sure that you are going in the right direction?"

Marty didn't answer. "Your friends have probably discovered your absence by now," the voice added.

Marty wiped his forehead. It ached horribly. "How would you know?" he muttered, continuing to plod through the mud. "Who are you?"

The voice grew silent. "You know," it said.

Doc Brown took one look at the open door to the outside and ran into Clara's room. The covers were in a jumbled heap on the bed, but no Marty. He jumped back into the living room. "Clara?" he asked, his voice coming out calm. "Have you seen Marty?"

Clara came out of the kitchen. "No," she said softly. "Why?"

Doc grabbed his coat, hanging by the fire. "He's not in your room. The door's open. I think he may have wandered outside."

Clara frowned, then glanced over at the fireplace. Her eyes widened. "His clothes are gone!"

Doc snatched one of the lanterns, sitting on the ground from earlier in the evening, and ran outside. It had stopped thundering, but rain was still falling pretty hard. Doc held a hand up to his forehead, sheilding the rain as he looked around. After a moment he saw faint footprints in the mud, half filled with water, heading away from the cabin. He followed them, noticing how they would veer one way, then slowly start the other way. Marty couldn't even walk straight, Doc thought. What had possessed him to go out on a night like this?

About five minutes passed when he actually caught sight of Marty. He was walking slowly, his head and shoulders slumped. A minute later, Doc was close enough to hear his voice. But who was he talking to? "Marty!" Doc yelled, running over to him.

Marty turned. "Don't come any closer!" he called, holding his hands up.

Doc stopped. "Why not? What on earth do you think your doing out here? Trying to catch pneumonia?"

Marty let out a laugh. "Already had that, don't you remember? It was just a few months ago!"

Doc frowned. Marty had never had pneumonia, not that he could remember anyway. He decided to ignore it. "Why don't you want me to come any closer?"

Marty looked from side to side, eyes wide. "Because I'm being followed by people. I don't know if they want me to know who they are or want to be seen."

Doc stopped himself from saying, "What!" like he felt like doing. Instead he took a long look around and then continued to approach Marty. "I don't see anyone."

"There's someone right behind you!" Marty insisted, pointing. Doc threw a look over his shoulder.

"Marty, there is no one around here but us," he said slowly. Marty suddenly moaned and rubbed his forehead.

"But I see them and hear them," he whispered, shaking his head. He titled dangerously to one side. Doc grabbed his arm too keep him from falling over.

"We're going to go back to Clara's cabin now," he said slowly. "You are in no shape to be out."

Marty sagged against Doc. "I have to get to the DeLorean," he insisted, his eyes wide and a little crazed looking. Doc shook his head firmly.

"No. You can hardly stand up." He bent over. "I'll give you a piggy-back ride to the cabin, okay?"

Marty slowly climbed on Doc's back, hooking his arms about his neck. "I hope you know what your doing," he mumbled. "Those people didn't look very friendly to me. One of them was Buford Tannen. They might want to hurt us."

Doc stood up and started to walk slowly back. "I wouldn't worry about it," he said. "Just relax."

Marty sighed and leaned his head on Doc's shoulder. By the time they reached the cabin, he was completely out. Doc was glad. He didn't need any of the delerious halutionations that Marty was experiancing to slow them up.

Clara was waiting anxiously by the door and ran out as soon as she saw the light from Doc's lantern. "What happened?" she gasped, taking the lantern from his hand as they climbed the steps.

"Marty's become delerious," Doc explained. "He said he went to get the DeLorean and that some people were following him and talking to him."

Clara sighed as they went into her bedroom and Doc carefully lay Marty on the bed. "The poor dear," she said softly, gazing down at him. "He doesn't even know what is going on now."

Doc took his coat off and set it on the back of the chair. "Do you still have those towels? He's gotten soaked all over again."

Clara nodded and stepped to the chest at the foot of the bed. "There are plenty in here." She opened it up and took some out as Doc started to undress him all over again. This time, Clara either forgot or realized the seriousness of the situation; she didn't turn around, but helped towel off Marty's hair and face. "What time is it?" she asked when Marty was finally under the covers again.

Doc checked his pocket watch. "Almost midnight," he answered, taking a look out the window. "Listen, I'm going to run back to my barn. I have a thermometer there and would like to bring it here to check Marty's temperature. Can you sit with him until I return?"

She nodded. "Of course."

Clara leafed through a book of poetry, too worried and anxious to actually read it. Beside her lay Marty tucked under a couple layers of quilts, unconscious. Even if it was quite late, she didn't feel tired. She wished that Emmett would get back. He had been gone for nearly half an hour. What could be keeping him so long?

Clara's mind drifted to earlier in the evening, the questions that Jules and Verne had been asked about there past. Doc had stopped after discovering there last names, but she had a feeling - perhaps it was maternal instict - that the boys were her and Doc's sons. In the future. After all, they had the same last name as Doc, and although Brown was fairly common, there was more to it then that. Their dates of birth were still a couple years away, for one thing.

Her thougths were interrupted by a moan. Clara shut the book of poetry and looked at Marty. He was starting to stir. She picked up the damp cloth and dabbed it gently across his forehead.

"Mom," he whispered, his chapped lips hardly moving. "Is that you?"

Clara felt his forehead. Burning hot. "Just relax now," she said softly. "You've been asleep for almost an hour now."

Marty sighed deeply. "I had a horrible nightmare," he murmured, pulling the covers tighter around his body. "I dreamed that I was in the middle of a thunderstorm...and all these people were following me...."

"Well," Clara broke in, patting his arm under the quilts. "You're safe and sound now, and Emmett should be back soon."

Marty's eyes jerked open and his lips moved as he looked at Clara. He looked confused, his blue eyes dazed. "What?" he began. His voice sounded like someone had etched his vocal chords with sandpaper.

"Don't talk," Clara instructed him. "It can't be good for you. Emmett's gone to his barn to pick up a thermometer for measuring your fever. It's almost one AM, September 10th. Anything else?"

Marty shook his head mutely. "Then you should be getting more sleep. You're quite ill. Can I get you anything?"

Marty shook his head again. Clara leaned over and retucked the blankets around him. As she did so, the silver and turquiois locket that Doc had given her a couple days before swung down. Marty's eyes focused on it and he gasped, sitting up.

"That's mine!" he gasped, grabbing it and examining it. Clara was almost knocked over from the sudden gesture.

"How can it be yours?" she asked, prying Marty's hand off the necklace and leaning back. He was pretty strong. "Emmett gave it to me a couple days ago."

"I gave it to Jennifer. She loves that necklace," Marty said, making a grab for the locket again. Clara placed her hand over it.

"I don't think so," she said carefully. Marty shook his head and threw the covers back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"I know that necklace anywhere. I spent two bucks for it. It's Jennifer's favorite!"

Clara shook her head again. At that moment she heard the door open and Doc walked in. "What's going on?" he asked, looking between both Clara and Marty.

"Clara has Jennifer's necklace and she won't let me have it," Marty said to him, his cheeks the color of fire. Doc took one look at him and pulled something out of his pocket.

"Here," he said, checking the small slim glass tube before handing it to Marty. "Lay back and put this in your mouth for a couple minutes. I'll talk to Clara."

Marty obeyed Doc, laying back in the bed and putting the thermometer in his mouth. Clara reached to pull the covers over him, but Doc stopped her and pulled her across the room. She decided it was a good time to question him.

"Why was he accusing me of taking the necklace?" she asked in a low voice. Doc shook his head.

"I told you before, he's delerious. Marty doesn't know what he's saying, or doing for that matter. I know that you didn't get to spend much time with him when he was here last week, but trust me, I know him well and he is normally nothing like this. It's the fever."

"Then what should we do?"

"Try not to get him excited or upset about anything. I would take off the necklace for now, or you could tuck it in your blouse. At this stage, he could do anything. I certainly wasn't expecting him to run outside tonight, were you?"

Clara shook her head.

"I'm sure once the fever is down he'll sleep more and be more coherent when he talks. But for now, we should try to humor him, but don't go too far with that."

Clara's head was swimming with all the instructions. "When do you think that the fever will peak?"

Doc stared at her, then looked over to Marty. He was still lying on the bed with the thermometer, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I don't know," Doc finally said.

Two minutes later, Doc pulled the thermometer from Marty's mouth and looked at the line where the mercury was. He let out a low whistle.

"What is it?" Clara asked, peering past his shoulder.

Doc held the thermometer next to the lamp and read it again. He shook his head, setting it down on the table. "This says his temperature is up to a hundred and six degrees!"

"Is that bad?"

"Quite. No wonder he is halucinating." Doc turned to Marty, who was watching them silently. His blue eyes looked like glittering ice compaired to the rest of his flushed face. Doc sat on the edge of the bed.

"How are you doing?" he asked, then quickly waved his hands. "Never mind, you shouldn't talk."

Marty gave a nod. "Hurts," he whispered, pointing to his throat. Doc could see definate swelling there now, up near the angle of his jaw.

"Why don't you try to sleep now," he suggested, standing up. "It's after midnight."

Marty shook his head firmly. "No," he whispered, sitting up and grabbing Doc's arm. "I want you to stay with me."

He looked at Clara. She smiled and walked toward the door. "I'll leave the both of you alone. I should get to bed now, anyway. I have to teach school tomorrow." Clara shut the door behind her.

Doc took off his wet coat sat back down on the bed. "Why don't you want me to leave?" he asked patiently.

Marty lay back on the pillows. "Because I don't want to be alone. What if those people try to take me?"

"Marty, I can promise you that none of those people are going to try and harm you," Doc said. "Have you seen them since we returned to the cabin?"

"No, but that doesn't mean they aren't coming," Marty said softly, a stubborn tone to his voice. He sighed and put his hands over his eyes. "I feel so bad," he muttered. "What's wrong with me?"

Doc reached over and brushed back a few still-damp locks of Marty's brown hair out of his eyes. "You're sick," he said slowly, looking into his face. "Do you realize that?"

Marty nodded slowly, then scooted over beside Doc and lay his head on his chest. "I know," he whispered, drawing his knees up and hugging them to his chest. "Will you tell me a story," he added.

"A story?" Doc repeated with a frown. "Why?"

"Because," Marty answered softly, looking up at him. "I don't care what it is about."

Doc stared at him for a moment. "I don't know any stories I could tell you."

"What about your kids?" Marty asked. "Like when they were born or something."

"What!" Doc gasped.

"Your kids, you know, Jules and Verne," Marty said with a yawn.

The final piece of that puzzle was in, not that Doc hadn't know before. But it was undenyable now. There was no way that Marty would lie about something like that, especially considering the condition he was in now. "Jules and Verne are my sons?" Doc said slowly, trying to believe the words.

"Yeah," Marty murmured. He was sinking fast now. Why did he always have to fall asleep during the imporant discussions? "Why, didn't you think they would be? They're your kids!"

"I - I don't know," Doc said, his mind reeling. He was silent for quite some time as he thought about that. After a while, Doc realized Marty had fallen asleep, snoring softly in his lap. He reached over and grabbed one of the quilts, tucking it over Marty. But Doc didn't move. He couldn't figure out if he was in a state of shock, or what. Anyway, he couldn't move. Marty was curled up right in his lap, and Doc didn't want to wake him up. He definantly needed his rest.

"I am - going to be - a father?" Doc whispered, trying to figure out how he felt about it. He liked the way the words sounded.

Jules and Verne both stared at Clara in shock. "We have to go to school?" Verne finally asked, making a face.

Clara nodded, looking tired. "Yes. With Marty so sick, Emmett and I decided that it would be best if you came to school with me during the weekdays. It's right next door and there are pleanty of children your own age to play with."

"But - but school is so boring," Verne said. "Can't we just hang out here, or go off on our own?"

"It would be best if you both went to school," Doc said softly from where he was leaning against the doorway of the bedroom. "You will be able to keep up with your studies that way."

Jules looked at his brother. "I suppose he is right, Verne. I'm sure that Martin would agree."

Verne remained stubborn. "I didn't come back a hundred years to go to school," he muttered.

"But I'm sure that Marty didn't come back one hundred years to get sick," Doc said, staring hard at Verne. He suddenly felt like he was getting lectured by his dad - and he was, in a way. Verne stared at the floor.

"Sorry," he said with a sigh. "All right, I'll go. But I know I'm not going to like it!"

Clara looked at a clock hanging on the wall. "School starts in half an hour, so be there by nine." She pulled on a coat and grabbed a bag as she spoke. "I have to leave now and get things set up at the school house." Clara turned to Doc, her expression suddenly serious. "How is Marty doing?"

Doc shrugged, looking exhausted. "His fever is up, when I checked a few hours ago. I was about to again. He's been sleeping soundly since about one this morning, which I suppose is good."

Clara patted his arm before walking out the door. "You should get some rest this afternoon too. I'll see you at lunch."

Doc nodded as he walked to the front door with her. "The doctor said he should be stopping by sometime this morning to check up on Marty. I'll let you know what he says."

Clara left. Verne looked out the window and watched her walk through the mud to the schoolhouse and go inside. The storm from the night before had left, leaving a clear sunny day behind. He turned away from the window with reluctance. "What do we have to do to get ready for school," he finally asked, scowling at the last word. He hated school, even if it was a whole lot easier now then in the future. School was school, no matter how you looked at it as far as Verne was concerned!

Doc turned and walked back into the bedroom. "Whatever you usually do. Do you have to bring anything?"

"Nothing we can show the 19th century children," Jules said, following Doc into the room. Verne tagged along. He hadn't seen Marty since the night before and wanted to know how he was doing. The curtains over the window were pulled shut, a couple rays of sunlight slipping through the cracks and landing on the floor. On the table next to the bed a oil lamp still burned brightly.

Marty lay in the bed on his back, a couple blankets twisted around him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily, like he had just run a marathon, sweat dampening his whole body. His entire face was a bright reddish pink, even his ears!

Doc reached for a thermometer lying between a dish of water and a empty tea cup. Verne watched as he bent over Marty and slipped it inside his opened mouth, then taking his fingers and placing them under the chin to close Marty's mouth.

"It should take a couple of minutes before we find out how high his fever is," Doc said absently. "I'm sure that it's gone up from what it was at 3AM."

"What was it then?" Jules asked softly, staring at Marty with a pained look on his face.

Doc sighed as he looked down at Marty. "Over one hundred and six," he answered softly. "Not good."

"Wasn't it like that when he had pneumonia?" Verne asked his brother. Doc turned his head sharply to look at him.

"What?"

Jules shrugged, not looking up. "It was approximately the same, I don't remember."

"Neither do I," Doc said, staring at the boys.

"Well, that may be 'cause it hasn't happened yet," Verne said, rolling his eyes.

Doc suddenly got a far away look on his face. "You're right, I guess."

Jules stepped away from the bed and grabbed Verne's arm, dragging him out of the room. "Can't you ever keep your mouth shut?" he asked in a low voice. "Think before you speak!"

Verne shrugged his brother's hand off his arm. "Relax, will you? We're gonna be gone most of the day anyway. And sorry, I just forgot."

"Think!" Jules repeated firmly. "And that goes for today at school too. A slip about the future could lead to too many questions from the other children and Clara. Of course, I'm sure that the children might think you were making it up. But Clara would not forget as easily."

"Okay, just quit bugging me about it!" Verne finally exclaimed. Their argument was interrupted by a knock at the door. Doc ran from the bedroom and pulled the door open before either of the boys could move.

"Dr. Peterson!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad you've come!"

The doctor stepped inside the room, nodding at Jules and Verne before turning to Doc. "How is he?"

Doc walked back to the bedroom, speaking to the Dr. Peterson over his shoulder. "Worse. I've taken his temperature and it is quite high..." Verne followed them into the room, not notcing Jules staying behind in the living room. Doc stepped beside the bed and removed the thermometer from Marty's mouth....

...Inside, they could hear their mother's voice as she lectured before a class. Jules waited a moment, his hand on the doorknob, finding the tone in the voice slightly different from the voice he recalled of his mother. It was more authoratative, business-like manner.

"...and in words like 'telegraph,' the P-H make a sound like an F. Once one remembers these tricky rules, spelling these words is quite simple to do." There was a pause, during which Jules could faintly hear pages rustling. He supposed there would be no better time than now to enter. With one more deep breath and a quick look at his brother to see that he was prepared, Jules turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped into the classroom.

Miss Clara Clayton, as she was known at the time, was standing in the front of the room, writing something on the blackboard. She turned at the sound of the door opening, as did the heads of the dozen or so students in the room. Jules' first thought was that she looked a little younger, which was only natural when seeing someone more than a decade younger. She seemed to have more energy, too, visibly just by the way she stood. He supposed being married and having two kids would tire anyone to some degree....