The HVCs, Volume IV: "For Better or For Worse"

"Oh God! put back Thy universe and give me yesterday." -- Henry Herman

Wednesday, May 5, 1886
6:28 A.M.
Hill Valley, California

After a long, cold winter, spring had at long last arrived in Hill Valley.

Emmett Brown stood in the doorway of the small schoolteacher’s cabin, watching the birds hunt for worms on the grass. The air that touched his face was cool, carrying with it a trace of dewy dampness, but the sky was a clear, dazzling blue above. The inventor knew it was going to be a beautiful, warm day. And none-too-soon from his point of view. He took a long sip from his mug of hot coffee, smiled, then turned to look at the clock above the mantle.

“Clara,” he called out to his wife. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, Emmett.” The reply was soft but clear, traveling through the slightly ajar bedroom door. Doc nudged it open, looking inside. With the curtains drawn over the windows, and the sun not much over the horizon, he couldn’t see more than her vague form lying in the bed.

“It’s almost six-thirty,” he added, wondering if she was fully awake yet.

“All right, dear, thank you.”

In spite of the dismissal, the inventor’s eyes detected no movement from the bed. A bit puzzled, but assuming that his wife was simply tired, Doc retreated from the room and into the kitchen.

Typically, before walking to town for the workday, he would usually have a light snack. A more substantial breakfast would be made in the livery stable where Marty McFly was residing. The almost-18-year-old’s cooking skills were still more accustomed to instant devices like microwaves. He could heat up things on the stove’s rangetop, and brew coffee or tea, but his talents at trying to make more elaborate things were rather limited. It was fortunate for him that Doc had left behind his breakfast-making device when he left. So long as the proper ingredients were in place the night before, a hot meal would automatically be waiting by 7:45 A.M., every day.

Doc collected the basket of lunch food that Clara had prepared the previous evening for himself and Marty, then grabbed a biscuit leftover from last night’s supper from the breadbox and placed it in the oven for a few minutes to toast. With jelly smeared on its surface upon its removal, it would make a tasty portable snack.

Clara arrived in the kitchen twenty minutes later, just as he was getting ready to leave. Her appearance caused the scientist pause. Normally, she would arrive dressed neatly, her hair combed and in place, ready for another day of teaching the youth of Hill Valley. This morning, although she was indeed dressed, her hair was uncharacteristically mussed and frizzy, and her face was rather pale. She smiled wearily at the sight of her husband as she stepped forward to the stove.

“Have a good day, Emmett,” she said, giving him a quick kiss.

Doc watched her carefully as she slipped past him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Clara said. She reached for the teakettle and poured herself a mug of hot water. “I just feel a touch under the weather this morning.”

Doc reached over and gently turned her face towards his, cupping his palm against her cheek. Her skin felt a little clammy, but not feverish. “How so?” he asked.

Clara lifted her shoulders in a shrug as she stepped away from her husband and reached up to remove the tin of tea from the shelf. “It’s nothing serious,” she said. “I think I’m simply tired. Don’t fret about it”

Clara generally wasn’t prone to complaints and, so far, her health had been almost impeccable. Still, Doc knew all too well that disease and sickness here could be much more deadly if left untreated or ignored. He had spent more than one sleepless night worrying during Clara’s mid-January headcold, and had argued (in vain) for her to call off classes during the duration of her illness. The schoolteacher was just as stubborn as her spouse when she set her mind to something and she assured him that educating the students would not wait “unless I am burning with fever or otherwise unable to conduct lessons.” Since she was clearly not running any sort of temperature, Doc reluctantly dropped the matter.

But he didn’t have to like it.

“All right,” he agreed, knowing that her request to not worry would go unheeded. How could he not fret about the love of his life? “I’ll be home around sunset, as usual.”

Clara managed a wan smile as she spooned some tea leaves into her mug. “Have a good day, dear.”

The walk to town typically took Doc about twenty-five minutes. He had a long stride and, when alone, tended towards a rapid pace. He didn’t mind the on-foot commute much, except during the rainy season, as it gave him time to think and reflect. It was also one of the few times he was alone. In town there was Marty, and at home there was Clara. Doc didn’t mind the presence of either, but such constant social company was a bit of an adjustment for someone who had spent a good forty-odd years living alone.

Since his marriage in mid-December, life had settled down to a comfort routine. On weekdays, Doc would rise around six in the morning, start the stove and coffee, and then wake Clara around six-thirty so that she could be at the schoolhouse by seven-thirty to prepare for the start of classes at eight A.M. Doc would leave his home around seven to arrive at his ‘smithing business anywhere from 7:30 to 7:45, with the goal of being open to customers by 8:30 A.M. If he was a little late, there were no complaints; businesses in Hill Valley now didn’t keep precise hours, and unless there was a pressing need for a product or service, no one seemed to notice if one opened late or closed early.

Being a married man hadn’t been too difficult of an adjustment, Doc thought. He had been expecting it to be more difficult, especially after years of confirmed bachelorhood. But many of the stereotypes that were so prevalent in popular culture in Doc’s time were not applicable to his situation. There were no nearby in-laws to contend with. (Doc still hadn’t met Clara’s folks, as they resided in New Jersey.) There were no arguments about Doc’s habit of leaving his inventions out. (All his work was still confined to the livery stable in town.) And by no means did Doc ever feel nagged, bothered, or otherwise annoyed by his wife. (Of course, with both of them working their own jobs during the day, he felt that he never saw her enough.)

If he took a moment or two to really reflect on the changes to his life over the last six months, the inventor did find it a bit mind boggling. But would he want to trade it all in for the way things were a year ago? Absolutely not! It wasn’t until he met Clara and then married her that he realized how sparse and lonely his life had been before.

There was only one thing that marred his opinion that life was perfect: He was a hundred years removed from his time. And he knew that things couldn’t stay like that forever. Every day lived in this time was another day of risk for the space-time continuum, of altering or even unraveling history for himself, his family, the McFly family, and the other citizens of Hill Valley; many who now lived and breathed in the town would father generations to come. A day didn’t pass where Doc didn’t worry a little more. He was starting to spend a couple hours every evening working on refining plans for a new time machine with the goal to complete one in less than five years.

It was a daunting plan, but the inventor was nothing if not driven. Clara and Marty supported the project wholeheartedly, and each volunteered to help when the time came for actual assembly. All that would remain would be the acquisition of a real home -- by next fall, Doc hoped -- and the materials to begin a new machine.

Doc’s mind recapped these plans as he made the walk into downtown Hill Valley that morning. It was good, he thought, that life had been relatively calm these last few months. There had been no disasters, temporal or otherwise, to contend with. Although the winter had been rather cold and vicious, no harm had come to himself, Clara, or Marty. And no one had fallen seriously ill...although perhaps that was now changing. Doc found himself fretting about his wife’s state that morning by the time he reached the livery stable and was glad that the day would offer plenty of distraction.

The building was dark and quiet when he arrived. That wasn’t entirely unexpected. Teenagers, as a breed, tended to recoil from early morning hours if at all possible, and Marty was no different. Doc habitually set the basket of lunch food down in the corner where the kitchen supplies and stove were located, then walked over to the curtained-off area at the back half of the building.

Although Doc had lived for close to a year in the building and had not really cared about the lack of privacy, such could not be said for Marty. A couple weeks after the inventor had moved into the cabin with Clara, thereby leaving the living portion of the stable solely for Marty’s occupation, the teen had found some sheets and quilts and strung a rather sloppy barricade separating the living space from the workspace. Clara had clicked her tongue upon seeing it for the first time and promptly sewed some proper curtains from bolts of linen purchased at the general store. The set up was less haphazard now, but still gave the scientist the vague, disquieting impression of a hospital cubical.

Doc grabbed one edge of the curtain and drew it back quickly along the tautly-strung length of rope. Marty was buried under a couple layers of blankets, only the top of his head peeking out. “Rise and shine,” Doc announced loudly.

The featureless lump of blankets twitched, but made no further attempt at movement. Doc leaned over to the window and snapped the shade up, allowing sunlight to spill into the room, across the bed. The lump groaned softly. “Come on, Marty. It’s a bright spring day out. No rain.”

Doc thought he heard an answering mutter, but he wasn’t entirely sure. He left the bedside and circulated through the stable, stoking the almost-dead forge and checking on the horses he owned. Twenty minutes later he heard the breakfast making device whir into action and returned to his project of rousing Marty. Not surprisingly, the teen had made no move to leave the bed. That didn’t discourage Doc, however; he had ways of dealing with his friend in the morning.

“All right, Marty,” he said. “This is your final warning. You need to get up now.”

The lump did not move. Doc sighed softly, then grabbed hold of the blankets and yanked them back, fast. Marty, abruptly exposed to the cold air, visibly cringed. He raised his head up from the pillow and gave Doc an wounded glare, squinting heavily against the bright daylight.

“What’s the deal?” he croaked.

Doc set the armful of bedding aside in one of the armchairs. “Time to get up. Breakfast is ready and there’s work to be done.”

Marty let his head fall back on the pillow and groaned softly. “For cryin’ out loud….”

Doc ignored the dramatics. He was used to such morning rituals by now. It was really no surprise to the inventor that his friend was so prone to late arrivals at school if he was so difficult to pry from bed in the morning. He didn’t envy Marty’s parents for that chore. “Unless you want to be seen like that by any of the townspeople” -- he indicated Marty’s current ensemble of long underwear in which the teen had slept -- “I suggest you get up, get dressed, and get something to eat. You know as well as I do how unpredictable the townsfolk can be when it comes to dropping by for aid.”

Marty groaned again but started to move this time. Doc left him to his morning preparations to tend to the food that was waiting. It was short order to divide the provisions between two plates. Ten minutes later, when the coffee was finally ready, Marty joined him at the small table. He was dressed, though his clothes looked a little wrinkled and sloppily assembled, and his hair still stuck up in a number of odd angles. He yawned widely as he sat down, not looking all the way awake just yet.

“Late night?” Doc asked as he passed his friend a cup of coffee.

Marty half-shrugged. “I was working on a new song,” he muttered, not elaborating any more than that. Knowing his friend’s habit of being less than eloquent first thing in the morning, Doc took no offense and changed the subject to something he was sure would interest the teen.

“I was looking at some figures last night,” he began, forking some eggs off his plate. “If my calculations are correct, Clara and I should have enough money to purchase a house no later than September.”

“That’s good,” Marty said around another yawn, the response sounding almost automatic to Doc.

“Yes, quite so. By that same point, I hope to have enough socked away to begin purchasing the supplies for the new time machine.”

That grabbed his attention. The spacy, half-awake glaze over Marty’s eyes abruptly vanished. He blinked a couple times, focusing his full attention across the table on the inventor. “What?”

“I said that by the fall, once a new house is acquired, I’ll begin to buy the supplies necessitated for a new time machine.”

Marty digested that as he chewed a piece of toast. “Did you figure out what kind of vehicle you’re gonna build it in yet?” he asked.

The question was an apt one; Doc had spent the last several months trying to determine what this new time machine would look like. Obviously it had to be mobile in order to reach the needed eighty-eight miles per hour velocity. It also had to be of a sturdy, preferably metallic, construction. This immediately wrote off many of the pre-made vehicles of the time. A Conestoga wagon, for example, would simply not do. Doc had toyed strongly with the idea of building something entirely new, cannibalizing the remains of the DeLorean -- still being stored in one of the horse stalls in the stable -- for the steel. However, breaking apart a car, even one that was already in a few pieces, would take a lot of time and consideration. He didn’t dare do such a thing without careful, precise blueprints.

There was, of course, one vehicle of the times that would be extremely appropriate for temporal transit. But Doc had no idea at the moment how to go about acquiring it privately. Not without a considerable sum of money. He didn’t see the point in mentioning what was still a rather farfetched idea to Marty then.

“Not really,” Doc said in response to the teen’s question. “The way it appears now, I’ll have to build my own vehicle to house the time machine.”

“You mean gutting the DeLorean?”

“It would take a lot more than gutting it to make that vehicle run again,” Doc said, wistful. “There was too much structural damage in the accident. I’m much better off building something entirely new, or building the time circuits into something else.”

“That sounds like it could take a while,” Marty said.

Doc shrugged. “The entire project will take a while,” he admitted. “You know that. But having the ability to begin making some of the parts will be a great step forward, and it should happen no later than September. Provided, of course, there are no unexpected setbacks.”

Marty had been raising his mug to his lips. He stopped halfway and suddenly looked at Doc, his eyes narrowed. “Setbacks?” he echoed “What do you mean?”

“Just as it sounds. Natural disasters. Illness. Anything that would cause a sudden, unforeseen expense. These are still uncertain times, after all, even if they may be in our hometown’s past.”

“Yeah, I know. Believe me. You really think something could happen between now and then?”

“No, not really. But it’s a risk, of course.” Doc thoughtfully tapped his fork against the side of his plate a couple times. “The biggest dilemma I can think about right now is locating a home that has the sort of privacy and space I’ll need. So far, I haven’t seen anything that fits the bill.”

“You’ve already started looking?” The teen sounded surprised.

“I’ve been making inquiries,” the scientist corrected. “Even if I wouldn’t be able to make the purchase for a few more months, knowing ahead of time if something is available would be a great advantage.”

Marty half-nodded at that reasoning. “So all we need to do is keep our fingers crossed that nothing bad’ll happen between now and August?” he asked.

“That’s simplifying things a bit,” Doc cautioned. “But, yes, the unexpected would be nice to avoid right now.” He took one last swallow of his coffee, then stood, having finished his meal faster than his friend. “When you’re finished, come over to the forge. We’re getting low on horseshoes and nails, and I know those aren’t too difficult for you to help me make.”

* * *

If there was one thing Doc enjoyed about blacksmithing work, it was the way the physical exersion and skill took his full attention. It not only made the time go by rapidly, but it helped him avoid worrying about the things that generally occupied his conscious mind the rest of his waking hours. Typically these worries circulated around creating a new time machine, around changing history, around Marty and the things he was missing out back in this time, and around money and how it should be budgeted. Anxiety about Clara was a rare thing, and even that morning, the matter of her health was one that Doc had all but forgotten in the haze of working.

This morning, he was doing his best to impart the skills and wisdom to Marty in the art of making horseshoes. About a month after the accident, which had prevented both the teen and the inventor from returning home to 1985, Marty had finally started to help out in the shop. Not wanting to thoroughly overwhelm him, Doc took the education in smithing matters slowly, adding more things to his friend’s plate every week. Marty was still more of an assistant to the inventor, but Doc was determined to teach him some basic skills of metalwork, particularly regarding tools and horseshoes. Those were not too difficult to do and would save the scientist a considerable amount of time if he had someone else around to make them.

“Hold it tight,” he told Marty, indicating the large metal pliers. They gripped a strip of metal that was glowing amber on the hot coals. “You’re going to need to move it over here to the anvil.”

“Right,” Marty said, carefully adjusting his grip. He carefully walked the half dozen steps separating the forge and anvil, holding the glowing metal high before him. “Is there a way to hold it and hit it at the same time?”

“Yes, but it’s a little awkward and takes some getting used to. Set the iron on the anvil and hold it there. Can you lift the hammer with one hand?”

Marty looked up long enough to throw him a mildly annoyed look. “I’m not a wimp, Doc.”

“No, but it takes some getting used to using those tools without both hands.” Doc picked up the hammer and handed it to Marty. The teen accepted it with his right hand, shifting his body a little to compensate for the weight. Doc watched as he bit his lip and tightened his knuckles around the tool’s handle.

“Hit the metal as hard as you can,” he advised from nearby. “And be careful of the sparks.”

“I know, I know,” Marty muttered softly, just under his breath. He raised the hammer up over the glowing iron.

“Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown!”

Marty almost dropped the hammer. Doc heard him hiss out a curse under his breath as he renewed his grip on the tool. Doc turned around at the sound of his name -- no one here knew he was a doctor -- and saw a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve run into the shop at a full clip. Doc didn’t exactly recognize him; he knew he had seen him around town from time to time, but couldn’t recollect his name.

“Mr. Brown!” the boy called again, looking around. The inventor and Marty weren’t in immediate view of the main doorway. Instead, they were off to the right where the forge and smithing equipment was located.

“Yes?” Doc said, drawing the youth’s attention to where he stood.

The boy’s head snapped around so fast that Doc heard his neck crack. His eyes focused on the inventor after a moment of darting around. “You gotta come, quick,” he said, speaking rapidly as he ran a few steps towards the smithing workshop.

Doc glanced at Marty, who had set aside the glowing metal on one edge of the anvil. The teen looked as baffled as the scientist felt.

“Why?” he asked. “Did someone’s horse throw a shoe?” If that was the reason behind the boy’s visit, it certainly didn’t warrant the haste in which the youth moved.

The kid’s head shook rapidly back and forth. “No, sir. It’s Missus Brown. She done swooned or somethin’ in class. Jerry Thomason’s gone fo’ the doctor an’ told me to go an’ get you.”

Doc tried to draw in a breath to respond to the statement but, for a moment, no air would come into his lungs. A terrible roar filled his head, and he found he couldn’t speak nor move. Clara -- fainted? In the schoolhouse? But how could that be? What did that mean?

Surely this had to be some sort of horrible joke!

Marty’s voice temporarily solidified Doc’s surroundings. “Doc?” he said softly. The scientist turned stiffly around to look at him. “You should go there. I can stay here and hold down the fort if you want.”

Doc found himself nodding, but unable to do much else until Marty gave him a firm, gentle push forward. “Go,” he said again. “I’ll track you down later, okay?”

Later, Doc would be unable to completely recollect or understand how he managed to grab his coat and hat on the way out. Nor was he able to recall saddling up Newton for the ride to the schoolhouse. Perhaps Marty or the boy -- Timmy, he found out when he asked -- aided him with these chores. Or perhaps it was sheer force of habit, much like locking the door when you left a house.

Timmy rode behind the inventor on the way back to the schoolhouse, clutching him tightly around the waist as Doc spurred his mount to a near breakneck speed. He wasn’t aware of his surroundings entirely, which was not the best way to ride at a fast gallop. His mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of his wife, which replayed in a seemingly endless loop. In his mind’s eye he saw Clara as she appeared that morning, with a pale, wan face. He heard her laughing, the sound of which would send warm shivers up Doc’s spine. He recalled her gentle scolding last winter when he tried to persuade her to stay home and nurse her cold. And her words from last winter, which taunted him now, replaying uncomfortable every other hoofbeat: “I will not cancel the schoolday unless I am burning with fever or otherwise unable to conduct lessons.”

“What happened?” the inventor managed to ask, halfway to their destination. His voice came out calm -- unnaturally so, he thought.

“She just up an’ fell down, sir,” Timmy said, his words coming out in quick bursts amid the jostling gallop. “We were in the middle of ‘rithmatic an’ she put a hand to her head and got a funny look on her face. I think she tried to sit down, but she didn’t fall in the chair. She fell to the floor instead.”

“Did she hit her head?” Doc asked.

“I dunno, sir. I was sittin’ in the back of the room when it happened.”

They turned the last bend in the road that led to the schoolhouse and cabin. A horse stood tethered to the fence and a dozen of the schoolchildren were milling around outside. Doc yanked Newton’s reins hard as he drew alongside the red building, stopping the horse so fast that poor Timmy came close to slipping off. Doc paused only long enough to help the boy down and instruct him to walk Newton around for a minute or so to allow the horse to catch his own breath and cool down. Then he was striding across the yard to the door of the schoolhouse. The children watched him as he approached, falling silent for a moment. One of them stepped forward to intercede his path.

“The doctor got here ‘bout ten minutes ago, Mr. Brown,” said the dark-haired kid. He looked to be a year or two older than Timmy, one of the oldest students at the Hill Valley Schoolhouse. Doc’s muddled memory was able to latch onto a name after a moment. Butch Paddington, he remembered. His father was the owner of the general store. “He took Missus Brown into the cabin yonder.”

Doc stopped dead in his tracks and turned to change course. “Was she awake?” he asked.

“Uh huh. The doctor was helpin’ her walk.” He followed Doc for a few steps. “Are we gonna have school anymore today?”

“No,” Doc said, pausing long enough to turn around and look at the waiting students. “I think it’s safe to say you have the rest of the day free.”

Butch nodded, then turned around to the small crowd that was watching them. “Hear that? Y’all can clear out, now.”

Only a couple of the children made any move to leave. Most remained rooted to the spot. “Is Mrs. Brown gonna be all right, Mr. Brown?” a little girl asked.

Somehow, Doc managed a smile. “I’m sure she will,” he said, far more confidently than he felt. “If you want to wait until the doctor finishes his examination, I’m sure that would be all right. I’ll share the news with you.”

There were murmurs and nods of agreement to this bargain. Funny, Doc mused as he hurried across the yard to the cabin, he never thought that Clara’s students would be so concerned. He supposed he was still used to the way students were in his time. School then was a four letter word, something to be dreaded and hated at all costs. But here, education was a privilege, not a right, and students connected firmly with the teacher they had. Small class sizes were no doubt one reason why. Clara also had a fine rapport with children.

The inventor bounded up the steps to the front porch of the cabin in one stride. “Clara!” he called as he opened the door.

“I’m in here, Emmett.”

Doc followed the sound of her voice into the bedroom. Clara was lying down, stretched out on top of the covers, looking far too pale for the scientist’s liking. The doctor, William Peterson, sat next to her on the edge of the bed, taking her pulse from the looks of it. He looked up as Doc stepped into the room and made a beeline for his wife’s side.

“Settle down, Emmett,” the doctor said as Doc grabbed his wife’s free hand. He gave it a strong squeeze. She squeezed it back, rather feebly. “Don’t upset her.”

“What happened?” Doc demanded, looking at both Clara and the doctor for the answer.

The schoolteacher cleared her throat. “I felt a little lightheaded,” she said. “I tried to sit down, but the next thing I knew, I was on the floor and James Walker was patting my cheeks with a wet handkerchief.”

“She fainted, Emmett,” Dr. Peterson added, removing his fingers from Clara’s wrist.

Doc felt a little annoyed. “I know that,” he said. “I’m not a fool. Is she all right?”

“I’m fine,” Clara said, patting the top of his hand and closing her eyes. “I’m just tired, I suppose.”

Doc looked up at the medical doctor as the man put away the instruments he had taken out. “Is that it?” he asked.

Dr. Peterson smiled a little, the expression looking rather odd to the inventor’s eye. “Well,” he said, “based on my examination of your wife, I don’t think there’s any reason to worry about her spell today. She’ll be fine in about eight months.”

The statement was strange to Doc. “Eight months?” he echoed. “Why eight months? What does she have, doctor?”

The doctor smiled -- a true smile this time. He glanced at Clara, who had opened her eyes and was watching him with a funny look on her face. And, Doc wondered, was that a touch of fear in her eyes? “Clara’s expecting, Emmett,” he said.

Doc blinked. still not getting it. “Expecting what?” he asked.

“A baby,” Clara whispered, her free hand drifting up to her lips. “Oh, my....”

Doc frowned a little -- and then the words really hit home. He froze and felt the blood drain from his own face. “A baby?” he half-whispered himself.

“Are you certain?” Clara asked, suddenly tightening her hand hard around her husband’s.

“Based on my examination, and your own reports about how you’ve felt recently, yes, quite so. The signs are all there. It’s nothing to worry about. The first few months you may feel a little under the weather, but-- Are you all right, Emmett?”

Doc was shaking his head. This couldn’t be happening. No, positively no. They had taken precautions! They had been careful! They couldn’t have a child! Not here, not now! It could unravel the entire space-time continuum!!

He took a step forward, then turned abruptly around, wanting to pace in spite of the dizzy, cold feeling that was beginning to permeate through his whole body. “You mean that she -- that we -- that there’s going to be an infant here in January?”

“Or thereabouts,” Dr. Peterson agreed. “Why don’t you sit down, Emmett?” The doctor was clearly concerned.

But Doc barely heard him. This was a disaster! How long, he wondered, would it take the universe to unravel? Perhaps not long at all; already he saw his very surroundings wavering in and out of focus, growing dim. And the very floor he stood upon rocking and disintegrating. “Great Scott!” he managed to murmur as things grew dark -- and he toppled to the floor in a dead faint.

* * *

By two P.M., Marty had had it.

He scowled as he whacked the iron on the anvil with all his might, finding it the perfect place to take out his frustrations and worry. Doc had left around ten-thirty that morning. Where the hell was he now? Hours had passed since then, and the teen hadn’t heard a single word about what had happened with Clara. He knew that Doc could be a little scatterbrained at times, but Marty would’ve thought he’d at least send a message telling him not to worry or something of that nature. And if there was a reason to worry, he figured he would’ve been informed, too.

Newly annoyed as these thoughts danced through his head once more, Marty gave the iron one final whack, then knocked it into the water bucket on the ground beside the anvil. A cloud of steam rose up, accompanied by a brief sizzling sound as the water abruptly cooled the hot metal. Marty tossed the hammer to the dirt, raked his arm across his forehead to wipe away the beads of perspiration, then turned and headed for the front doors. Although he had recently had lunch, he felt entitled to a little break.

He opened the main door of the stable and stood in the doorway, enjoying a cool breeze and watching the main drag of town. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary today. People were moving at the same pace they normally did. The courthouse across the square was nearing completion at long last; a few men were busy painting some of the wood trim, and planting some greenery, but beyond that it appeared to be finished. It looked like a very clean, and slightly retro version of the clock tower that Marty had grown up with.

It was beyond weird hearing the clock chime, though, which he did every hour, loud and clear. He would wake up in the middle of the night sometimes from the sound of the chimes, and, in a half awake, mentally muddled state, mistake it for the grandfather clock that his parents had when he was a child. That timepiece broke sometime in his early teens and neither Lorraine or George had ever gotten around to fixing it. The hands were still frozen at 1:23, the time it had stopped. Marty wondered if that was still true in his house or if that was yet another thing that had changed from his interactions in the past.

He sighed as he leaned against the doorframe, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He had been here for eight months now. Eight months too long, as far as he was concerned. Long enough that memories about home, what felt like his “old life,” seemed faded and distant, like a dream. He didn’t feel like the same person anymore, and when such thoughts crowded in his brain -- usually late at night, when he was too exhausted to fight them off, but perversely too wound up to go right to sleep -- it disturbed him. How would he ever be able to assume his old life again whenever Doc got a new time machine to work?

I know he said he’d undo it, Marty thought, frowning faintly. But how much is that going to erase my memories and experiences? If I never live through something, I guess it won’t really hurt me.

Thinking about that too long gave him a real headache, so he tried to avoid it.

Life in general, Marty supposed, could have been worse. Things had settled into a regular, if boring, sort of routine. And ever since Christmas, when Doc had give him a guitar, he found himself feeling less crazy and anxious than he had in the fall. He had never realized how much his music acted as a sort of therapy until then, and it made him wonder how he would’ve survived the last several years in his family without his guitar, the band, and Doc’s optimistic confidence in his talent. It drove him a little crazy that he couldn’t perform at all or share his music with anyone -- Doc’s one stipulation relating to the guitar was that he keep his music to himself -- but he didn’t want to risk screwing anything in history up, so he kept his end of the bargain without much fuss.

Of course, Marty thought with a faint frown, when Doc undid all this stuff that trapped him in the past, he would not only lose his memory of the here and now, he would also lose whatever songs and music he created. The thought was a sobering one, and more than a little mildly frustrating, so Marty preferred to ignore it.

After a few minutes of watching the people stroll by, Marty turned around and headed for one of the horse stalls. If Doc wasn’t going to come to him, he guessed there was nothing stopping him from tracking down the scientist. Business was slow that day anyway; he didn’t think his friend would mind.

Just in case the inventor was on his way back, Marty jotted a quick note explaining his errand to the schoolhouse. Then, after saddling Archimedes and grabbing his coat and hat, he was off.

Riding horses was not the awkward, painful ordeal it once was. Marty couldn’t pinpoint just when things had switched, but he gave little thought now to putting the equipment on the animal and taking off to wherever he needed to go. He still preferred the idea of traveling by car to horseback riding, but with the invention of the auto still decades away, this was pretty much the fastest way to travel. Aside from the train, of course.

Marty hurried his mount up to a gallop, knowing that it wasn’t great for the horse but feeling far too impatient to move at a slower pace. After about ten minutes at such a pace, he slowed to allow the horse to catch his breath. It wasn’t long after that when he reached the schoolhouse and cabin.

Marty’s first thought was that he needed to move elsewhere. The yard of the schoolhouse was deserted; classes had clearly been long dismissed for the day, if they had ever resumed after Clara’s spell. Then he noticed smoke coming from the chimney of the cabin, and Newton tethered to the fence. Marty tugged his mount to a stop and dismounted, tying the animal next to the first, then stepped through the picket fence gate. It was quiet, so far as he could tell, and the home had a hushed, peaceful quality to it.

Marty knocked softly on the door, not entirely comfortable with the idea of barging in as if he owned the place. “Hello?” he called softly. “It’s Marty.”

He heard footsteps cross the floorboards, and a moment later Clara had pulled open the door. She looked pale. Her dark eyes were rimmed in red, as if she had been crying, and stood out starkly against her face. “Hello, Marty,” she said, managing a small smile as she stepped back. “Come in.”

Marty stepped into the cabin, looking around. A vague sense of disquiet nagged at him; something, he was positive, was wrong. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You fainted earlier?”

“I’m fine,” Clara said softly. She closed the door and leaned against it a moment, hugging the sweater she wore tightly around her.

Marty took off his hat and looked carefully at her. She didn’t look as if she felt very well. “Where’s Doc?” he asked instead.

Clara lifted a hand to indicate the closed door of the bedroom. “He’s in there,” she said. “Resting. Don’t disturb him, Marty.”

The teen was even more confused. “He’s resting?” he echoed in disbelief. “Why? Is he okay? What’s going on?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Clara said, so softly than Marty didn’t think he was intended to hear the words. He frowned, irritated all over again, and touched the schoolteacher on the shoulder to get her full attention.

“Is something wrong with Doc, Clara?”

Clara shook her head once and took a step away. “The doctor said he’ll be fine. Excuse me, Marty.”

Marty watched in shock as she turned towards the closed bedroom door, went inside, and shut it behind her. He blinked a few times, frowning, completely baffled. This wasn’t like Clara, who was normally polite and gracious to a fault. (Apparently, according to Doc, this was a normal thing for a woman to be in this time.) Something weird was going on, and he didn’t like it at all.

Marty wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He didn’t want to go back to the stable and kill time. And he also felt a little reluctant to barrel into Doc and Clara’s bedroom. So he did the one thing he felt he could; he took a seat in the living room and waited for something to happen.

He didn’t have to wait too long.

About ten minutes after he began his vigil, he heard Doc’s muffled but unmistakable “Great Scott!” burst out from behind the slab of wood. Marty sat up straighter and strained his ears to hear what followed, but he needn’t bothered. A moment later Doc threw open the door and strode out into the room. His hair was wild, his eyes were wide, and his clothes were wrinkled, as if he had slept in them. He didn’t seem to notice his friend sitting quietly a few feet away.

“How could this happen?” he bellowed, sounding more incredulous than angry. “How?”

Clara was close on his heels. “Emmett, calm down,” she begged. “The doctor said you could go into shock again. You don’t want that, do you?”

Doc stopped abruptly and turned to face his wife. “I don’t want this, either,” he said, very bluntly. With those words, Clara’s eyes abruptly filled with tears. The inventor noticed and hastened to rephrase himself. “I’m sorry, Clara, but you know why this is terrible news. I know that nothing can be done to undo the situation, but…what in the name of Sir Isaac H. Newton are the consequences going to be?”

“I didn’t want this either, Emmett,” Clara said, blinking away her tears. She seemed to be as unaware as the inventor that a third party was gawking at them from a few feet away. “But now that this has happened, I…I can’t say I’m entirely sorry.”

Doc frowned, looking almost angry. “Clara! Don’t you understand the consequences this could have on the world? On the space-time continuum? Neither of us belong in this time period. A baby of ours belongs even less.”

Marty blinked once, assuming he had misheard his friend. A baby? No, that couldn’t be it. No way....

“I understand perfectly,” Clara said, clearly but firmly. “I also think that you’re fretting far too much about things that may not even happen. Besides, if you create a new machine to remove us from this time, there should be no danger in bringing a child into this world. Not for a few years, at least.”

Marty’s breath caught in his throat. They were talking about babies! Which could only mean one thing.

“You’re pregnant?” he exclaimed, standing and drawing immediate attention in his direction. “How the hell did that happen?”

Doc turned his head and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. Clara’s cheeks immediately flushed with color. “Marty, what are you doing here?” Doc asked.

Marty ignored the question. “Is Clara pregnant?” he demanded.

Doc glanced over at his wife. Clara’s face was beet red and her eyes were trained on the floor. “Well, according to the town doctor, yes.”

Marty couldn’t breathe for a moment. “You…you promised that wouldn’t happen,” he said in a low voice, aware of Clara’s presence, but not sure how to tactfully phrase his words.

The inventor glanced at his wife again. “Yes, well, even the best laid plans can apparently go awry.”

Marty stared at the couple a moment, his mind recalling Doc’s assurances and words that the odds of a little Brown coming into the world would be essentially nil. The teen had almost put those fears to rest as the months had gone by and no pregnancy had surfaced. He had started to believe that his friend had things under control in that area, that whatever it was he was doing was working.

This just couldn’t be happening now! While Doc feared the end of the world, Marty had more pressing matters to consider. A baby, he knew, would be a big, expensive distraction that would simply keep them in the past that much longer.

“How could you let this happen?” he snapped, directing his words towards Doc. A quick, hurt expression flickered across the inventor’s face before it was replaced by something more akin to concern. “You said you had everything under control!”

“We’ll talk about this later, Marty. Why don’t you go back to the shop and I’ll be there soon.”

Marty snorted as he pulled his hat on. “Forget that,” he said, heading for the front door. He slipped past the older couple, snatching his arm away when Doc reached out to grab it.

“Where are you going?” Doc asked as Marty yanked open the door. The teen didn’t answer the question, walking briskly to one of the waiting horses. “Marty!” Doc called out after him.

As Marty pulled himself up on Newton -- leaving his mount to continue to rest after his ride to the cabin -- he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Clara holding Doc back. Well, good. He didn’t want to deal with his friend now, or announcements about babies, or any well-meaning townsperson passing along congrats. He needed to think and figure out some way to deal with the new twist life had thrown him.

And so he headed off at a quick trot, not entirely sure where he was going to end up.

* * *

“Let him go, Emmett,” Clara said softly to Doc as they watched Marty race away on the horse. “There will be time enough to speak with him later.”

Doc resisted the urge to fight off the hand of his spouse, opting to take a deep breath instead. Clara was right, he knew, but he also was well aware of the careless, headstrong streak Marty had him. It hadn’t been showing itself very much lately, making the scientist wonder if his friend was outgrowing such tendencies, but the look on Marty’s face right now couldn’t be mistaken. He was upset, he was angry, and no good could possibly come of that.

“Maybe,” Doc murmured. “But I’d like to know where he’s going.”

“Wherever he roams, he is surely smart enough to be home before dark,” Clara said. “He’s almost a man, now, Emmett. He won’t be foolish.”

Doc reluctantly turned away from the road, Newton’s hoofbeats growing fainter by the second. “Maybe,” he said again. “And we need to talk.”

Clara nodded once, but there was a certain stubborn tilt to her jaw as she regarded her husband. “Certainly,” she said softly. “But you should know that I have no intention of giving up this child or not having it. We tried to avoid this, Emmett, but I think the fact that it happened means that this child very much wants to be born. That this was something meant to be.”

Doc didn’t quite share those same views. Conception was something purely scientific and biological, controlled by little more than the whims and wills of hormones. Not anything beyond that. “It’s something that shouldn’t be,” he said. “At least not now.”

Clara sighed. “You are entitled to that view,” she said, her tone a little sharp. “However, you need to understand that whatever your feelings are on the matter, this child is coming and I, for one, will welcome him or her with open arms.” That said, she turned and walked into the house, closing the door behind her with a note of finality.

Doc took a step forward to go after her, then changed his mind and turned back to the front yard of the cabin. He slumped forward against the railing, bowing his head to look at the blooming and budding flowers mired in the dirt below. When he woke this morning, everything seemed neatly in place. Now, the entire universe had turned upside down! Pregnant! How on earth could Clara be expecting a baby? They had been so careful, so very careful.

Doc’s mind remained stubbornly hooked on the concept, too scared or unwilling to see things beyond that. He didn’t want to imagine what the child would be like, how she or he would look, or what being a father would involve or do to him. Instead, he reminded himself of his responsibility to time, which he had accepted the moment he had created a successful time machine. Creating people and bringing them into a past time was not something a responsible scientist did, no matter how you looked at it.

And what about Clara? Doc was very aware of the risks pregnancy carried to women who were older. Clara had turned thirty-one in late March. That was late to bear children in 1985. Here, with medical technology so primitive, it seemed too easy in Doc’s point of view for something, some danger, to slip past the doctor.

He sighed again, especially at the recollection of Marty’s fierce reaction. There would be, he knew, no easy way out of this one. He couldn’t go back and “undo” a pregnancy, especially with no operating time machine. He didn’t dare suggest to Clara that it should be terminated. Abortion carried even more risks to the health of the mother than seeing the pregnancy through to the end, and was an even more taboo subject than sex in this time. And he certainly couldn’t suggest to Clara that she give up the child to another couple. The problem of another person in the world would still be there, and perhaps made even worse if people who hadn’t a child to raise before now had the chance to do it.

Doc’s mind twitched and whirled with plots and scenarios for close to an hour before he ventured back into the cabin, some semblance of a plan having been cobbled together. He found Clara in the kitchen, working on the preparations for supper. She didn’t look up as he came inside, and the inventor was quite certain it was deliberate.

“Clara?” he said, pausing in the doorway.

“Yes?” Her response was brisk, clipped.

“I suppose it’s all right if you have this baby.”

Clara turned, pausing in her chore of mixing batter in a bowl. “Why, Emmett, how wonderful it is to have your approval on the matter.” Her tone was so frosty that Doc shivered. He quickly backpedaled, realizing that what he had to say hadn’t come out precisely how he had wanted.

“No, what I mean to say is that...well, I’m sorry for the way I reacted earlier.”

Clara did nothing more than blink. “Is that all?” she asked evenly.

Doc wasn’t entirely sure what else was expected of him. “I believe I’ve figured out a way we can accommodate this new situation,” he said. “We’ll simply have to step up production on a new time machine.”

Clara sighed, the sound weary. She set the bowl down on the table and ran her hands down her still-flat stomach. “Do you really believe that is the best answer?”

“Frankly, yes,” Doc said. “If we can leave this time before the child is much more than a toddler, I don’t think the space-time continuum or the local history will be affected too severely. Of course, some sacrifices will need to be made.”

Clara studied him a moment, her hands now placed on her hips. “What do you mean by that?”

Doc felt inexplicably nervous. He turned and headed into the adjacent room, feeling the need to pace as he discussed his thoughts with his wife. “Your teaching job will end in about a month,” he said. “There won’t be any way we can persuade the schoolboard to extend your contract. Not in your condition. Having a married schoolteacher teach is one thing, but having one teach who is not only married but expecting a child is something else entirely.”

“I gathered as much,” Clara said, watching him from the doorway to the kitchen.

“When your job ends, we will be without a place to live. We cannot stay in the livery stable, as you know. This means that, no later than June, we’ll need to have a house. Not simply a house, but something that has enough property and privacy so I can create a new time machine without stirring up any attention.”

Clara nodded once. “Can we afford it?” she asked.

Doc grimaced as he thought about the state of their accounts. “Barely, but yes. Furnishing the home and purchasing necessary supplies for the machine may be dicey.”

“Leave the home furnishings to me,” Clara said. “My parents assured me that they would pay for those when we moved out of the cabin.”

Doc opened his mouth to argue that they couldn’t, and shouldn’t, accept the money and gifts, then closed it before his words had the chance to escape. Clara would, of course, argue about that, and he wasn’t sure if he had enough left in him right now to go about rebutting her. Besides, they needed those things. He could only hope he wasn’t depriving a future Clayton down the line of some small fortune.

“That still leaves the matter of purchasing supplies for the machine,” Doc said. Then, abruptly, he shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll figure something out.” He didn’t quite like the taste of the idea that was creeping into his brain as a possible solution, but if he couldn’t think of anything else....

“I will lose my job this year, and we will have to move sooner,” Clara said. “What other sacrifices will we need to make?”

“No vacations,” Doc said.

“Aside from our honeymoon, we haven’t had anything of the sort,” Clara said. “I don’t see that as any hardship.”

“I’ll also be quite busy,” Doc warned. “I’d like to share the parental duties with you, but between working, commuting to and from where we are living, and creating a new time machine, you may not see much of me except at mealtimes.”

“It will be temporary. Really, Emmett, you haven’t given me one notion that’s utterly reprehensible to live with. In my mind, a child is worth such small sacrifices.”

Doc wasn’t so sure about that, so he said nothing. He ran a hand through his hair. “All right,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow you may want to write or even wire your parents about our news and change of plans. I’ll see if I can leave Marty in the shop tomorrow afternoon to look more aggressively for hous-- Marty! Great Scott, I almost forgot! I’ve got to locate him!”

Clara stopped him as he turned to grab his coat and hat from the rack near the door. “Emmett, how do you feel about this baby? You’ve said nothing about that matter.”

The inventor turned around to look at his wife. “How do you feel?” he asked instead.

“Well, it’s nice of you to finally ask me! I’m happy, I admit. I feel as if we’ve been given a wonderful gift.”

“If it was so wonderful, it would have waited until we were living in the future,” Doc muttered, half to himself.

Clara gave him a mildly scolding look. “Emmett!”

“Well, it’s true! This is not the ideal environment in which to birth or even raise a child. Aside from the possible influence this can have on time, it concerns me that you have to be pregnant now. Having children in your thirties is no light matter, Clara. There are many complications that can arise, and I know that childbirth was deadly for even healthy women right now.”

“I’ll be fine,” Clara said, firmly. “I come from strong stock, Emmett. Don’t worry a whit about that.”

“How can you ask me not to worry? You fainted today!”

“I’m told that is not uncommon for women who are in my condition,” Clara said. “The doctor gave me a thorough examination before you arrived, and he assured me that I’m in excellent health otherwise.” She took a step towards her husband, her tone and face softening a little. “Don’t fret so, Emmett,” she said, touching his cheek with her fingertips. “I’ll weather this fine, and when it’s over, we’ll have a lovely child of our own. One who will not unravel your universe or cause any harm to the world.”

Doc took her hand from his face and clasped it between his own, drawing it close to his heart. “Perhaps,” he allowed softly -- and knew very well that, no matter what Clara said, he would not be able to relax at all for the rest of their time in the past. Not even if her pregnancy passed uneventfully, and she delivered a healthy child.

From this point on, until he was safely back in his own time with Marty and his growing family, he would be painfully aware of every minute that passed.

After leaving his wife behind at the cabin, Doc’s first stop was the livery stable. It would be logical if Marty had headed there; it was his home. But he found the barn to be empty. A note was tucked in the frame of the mirror, scrawled on a scrap of paper. Doc -- Went to the cabin. -- M. Marty had thoughtfully left the time of day at the bottom of the note: 2:15 P.M. That was two hours earlier, and the inventor had the feeling that the note was left before his friend had gone to the cabin and overheard the news. He also noticed that Newton was missing. Obviously, the teenager had not returned.

Doc’s next stop was, reluctantly, the Palace Saloon. He half-expected to find his friend sequestered at the back of the room with alcohol -- as he had reacted in such a manner the night of Doc and Clara’s engagement -- but Chester, the bartender, said he hadn’t seen him all day. He had, however, heard the news about Clara, and offered the scientist a drink on the house, on the count of it. Doc accept the congratulations but declined the free sarsaparilla for now, more pressing matters at hand.

Doc rode through the town, pausing a couple times to ask the townspeople he passed if they had seen “Clint Eastwood,” the name that Marty was still known as. No one had. Several did inquire about Clara’s health, having heard stories from their children or neighbors about the schoolteacher’s collapse. Doc assured them that she was fine, but didn’t share the big news. They would know soon enough.

After making a sweep through town and coming up empty-handed, he started to get distinctly nervous. Where, he wondered, would his friend go? Where could he go? Could he be at the McFlys, even though they lived fourteen miles outside of town? Doc wasn’t sure if Marty really had any other friends in town, none that he would spend any length of time or go out of his way to see. There weren’t any locations outside of town that he could imagine held any draw for his friend.

And then Doc thought of one place he hadn’t yet checked.

* * *

Marty sat with his head bowed, staring down at the ground below, his emotions a tangled muddle. He felt almost numbed inside, and a part of him wondered if he was in some form of shock. A baby. Doc and Clara were going to have a baby. Jesus Christ.

Things had been somewhat of a blur since he had fled the schoolteacher’s cabin. Marty hadn’t wanted to return to town, or even the livery stable. There were simply too many people around, and he didn’t want to be around anyone else right now. Without any thought or plan, he had found himself heading for Shonash Ravine. The railroad line that would cross the width of the ravine was still under construction, with a supposed goal of opening in midsummer. Marty had felt inexplicably drawn to the spot. It had changed the course of Doc and Clara’s life, being the site of their first encounter. And it was supposed to be the location where the DeLorean would have traveled back to the future.

No one had been around to see him stop the horse and hike out to the middle of the bridge span. The trains weren’t running on the line yet, and heights didn’t bother Marty too much. He wasn’t thinking of jumping -- nothing that ridiculous. But sitting in the middle of the bridge on the wooden railroad ties, his legs crossed, hearing nothing more than the rush of the wind, was somewhat soothing.

Until, of course, he remembered why he had been compelled to come out here in the first place.

A cold fist of fear gripped his heart every time the news repeated itself in his brain. Doc had promised him; he had vowed that Marty shouldn’t worry about that issue, that he would take care of things so it wouldn’t happen. Marty had doubted it and, in fact, had half expected something like this to happen at some point. But not now. Not when Doc was talking about buying homes and stuff for a new time machine.

Those plans, Marty knew, would be postponed now, if not thrown out entirely. Not locating a new home; if anything, the teen was sure that his friend would make that more of a priority. But building a new time machine? Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen remotely soon now. In spite of his best efforts, his eyes filled with tears at the idea. He swallowed hard, screwing his eyes shut and digging his nails into the wooden beams that supported the rails. It would be ridiculous to cry over something like this.

He would think about how pissed he was with Doc instead. But even Marty knew that he didn’t have much of a leg to stand on with that one. Clara was an equal collaborator in the event, and Doc’s reaction back at the cabin told Marty loud and clear that his friend was not greeting the news with smiles and cheers Any animosity that he felt towards his old friend was related more to the idea that Doc was going to sideline building a new time machine.

He had been alone at the ravine for a while -- the shadows were getting longer, a sign of it being late afternoon -- when he heard the distant but distinct sound of hoofbeats approaching. Marty didn’t look up, even when he heard the horse stop, followed directly by the sound of footsteps crunching over gravel as someone approached his perch.

“Marty? What are you doing out here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Marty closed his eyes again, his head still bowed, not yet feeling up to face his friend yet. Especially on a railroad trestle. “Leave me alone, Doc,” he said.

The inventor didn’t seem like he was going to do that; his footsteps moved onto the tracks. “What are you doing in the middle of the bridge?”

“Trying to figure out the meaning of life; what does it look like?”

Marty heard Doc heave a clear and audible sigh. “I’m sorry you found out about the news in the manner you did. I would have liked to break it to you in a better way. Before you think that I’ve been keeping this from you, rest assured that I was only told today. In fact, Clara herself only found out this morning, after she fainted at school.”

“I figured as much,” Marty said softly. He tossed a piece of gravel in hand over the edge of the bridge, watching as it spun through the air and clattered far below on the rocks and brush.

Doc crouched next to him a moment later, having reached his side. “I know you’re upset,” he said. “I’m upset, too. This is quite unexpected and...well, from my perspective, rather unwelcome. I think Clara’s happy about it, more than she would ever admit to me, but there are too many risks and dangers for me to become particularly excited about the matter.”

Marty shrugged, not sure what Doc expected him to say about that. There was a pause from his friend. “I’m sorry this happened,” he said. “I know I told you it wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“This won’t change the plans I had made -- not to purchase a home or supplies for a time machine. It’s more important than ever to remove ourselves from this time. Clara and I have created someone that never existed in any time frame before this! The sooner we get out of the past, the better for all of us.”

“You say this now,” Marty said dully, “but things’ll change. Again. Babies are expensive, and they take a lot of work. I’m not stupid enough to buy that you’ll put the time machine before your kid.”

“I am aware of the expense, as is Clara, but there are other ways to fund the machine. I had hoped not to use them, but I suppose I have little choice now.”

There was such a strange note in Doc’s voice that Marty finally looked up in spite of himself. The inventor was staring off into the distance, looking a little worried. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Making investments in certain areas and companies, based on knowledge of future events,” Doc said. “I’ve deliberately avoided doing that since I arrived, but now I really don’t have much of a choice. Not if we’re going to get out of the past before the turn of the century.”

“Wait a minute -- what about all that talk about not inventing the time machine for financial gain?”

“This isn’t a deliberate attempt to get ungodly wealthy so I can have expensive things and a lot of power or clout,” Doc said, favoring Marty with a sidelong glance. “This is to simply turn enough of a profit to fund a time machine, which we will use to get the hell out of here. I have no intention of doing this same thing once I’m back in my own time. Can you think of a better solution to this problem?”

Marty could not, but he couldn’t resist giving his friend a hard time after the scolding he had received in 2015 from buying a sports almanac. “I dunno, Doc, it still sounds kind of illegal to me. Kind of like gambling.”

“Well, if you really want to remain here a decade or more, I can simply use legitimate work to earn the money....”

Marty backpedaled immediately. “No, that’s fine. Do what you need to do.”

“I’m also going to need your help,” Doc said. “In both the construction of the time machine, as well as with the business.”

“You know I’m there for you, Doc,” Marty said flatly.

Doc noticed his lack of enthusiasm. “What else is bothering you, Marty?”

The teen shrugged. “I dunno,” he said honestly. “I guess I’m just...disappointed or something.”

“Well, I’m disappointed, too,” Doc said softly. “I never thought of myself as a father in any capacity. I never thought it would be something I would be faced with.”

A ghost of a smile turned up the corners of Marty’s mouth. “I think you’ll do fine with that,” he said. “You were there for me more than my own dad the last few years. And you’ve got all that experience teaching, right?”

The scientist snorted softly. “There’s a world of difference between infants and college students,” he said. He changed the subject once more with his typical breakneck speed. “This unforeseen event won’t change anything else, beyond the size of my family and the danger we all pose to the space-time continuum. A new machine will still be constructed, sooner than later. And we’ll need to move sooner than later as well.”

Marty looked at him, wanting to believe but still skeptical. Doc’s recent track record at keeping his word wasn’t the best. “Sure,” he said, hoping it would be true. “If you say so.”

Doc looked at him for a long moment, then stood. “C’mon,” he said. “Clara’s probably concerned about us both, and I’m sure that you’d much rather have dinner with us than out of a can in the stable.”

Marty wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’t feel like putting up a fight. He got to his feet and followed Doc back to their tethered horses, uneasiness continue to nag at him about the latest twist from life.

Sunday, July 4, 1886
8:04 P.M.

“Citizens of Hill Valley and Hill County, it is a great honor for me to be here tonight. It is fitting, in my opinion, that the dedication of our long awaited courthouse is taking place on nothing less than the anniversary of our nation’s birth. One hundred and ten years ago today, our forefathers came together to usher in a new country. This country was founded on principals of equality and basic human rights, including life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. May this building play a role in continuing those same principals for another one hundred and ten years.”

“Or a hundred and thirty,” Marty quipped softly. Beside him, standing in the crowd that had gathered before the steps of the brand new courthouse, Doc smiled.

“Or beyond,” he agreed. “Hubert would be pleased if he knew.”

The mayor, Hubert Parker, continued his speech from the steps of the courthouse. Marty listened to it with half an ear. He thought the mayor was a little longwinded and pompous -- it was just a building opening up, after all -- and their were plenty of distractions around. Not since the town festival back in September had Marty seen so many of the townspeople gathered together in one place. There were also a variety of food booths, a stage set up with a band, and the promise of a fireworks show after sunset. Parties weren’t too common out here, so Marty had been looking forward to this for week; even Doc and Clara had seemed excited by it. Even if there had been no celebration, though, Marty knew that Doc would have wanted to attend the ceremony to dedicate the courthouse. It was perversely fitting for them to be there, as it was such a key landmark in their town.

They also deserved a little break. It had also been a busy, stressful time since early May, when Clara and Doc had been given the news about a baby coming their way. The very next day, after what Marty puckishly thought of as The Beginning of the End, Doc had started to search for a more permanent home. Somehow, he and Clara had managed to negotiate for use of the schoolteacher’s cabin until mid-August, paying rent to the schoolboard as Clara was no longer teaching.

While Doc scoped out potential properties, Marty had to deal with keeping the business open. He could handle some simple stuff all right, but anytime someone came in with a problem or request that was more complicated than picking up nails or horseshoes, Doc would have to deal with it. Some of the locals weren’t very understanding about that; a few times Marty had to face irate customers who yelled at him, as if it was his fault he couldn’t do what they asked. Not wanting to piss off anyone and thus make Doc lose a customer, Marty had managed to hold onto his temper -- barely -- but had wasted no time in venting to Doc when the inventor would return from his field trips.

“It’s not my fault that I can’t shoe a horse or fix a wagon or whatever the hell they want,” he grumbled bitterly to his friend, once he had filled him in about what Doc had missed out on. “If I was that guy, I’d rather wait until someone who knew what they were doing could handle things!”

“Yes, but they expect certain services when they come here,” Doc said. At Marty’s look of surprise, he added, “Not that this excuses them for taking their anger and frustration out on you. I suppose we should step up your education in this area.”

“How can you do that?” Marty asked. “You’re too busy now.”

“I suppose I can come over here on weekends or we can work in the evenings,” Doc said with a sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. Marty immediately felt a little guilty for bringing that up.

“You don’t need to do that. I mean, this is your business, not mine. It’s not my fault some people are assholes when they hear the word ‘no.’”

Fortunately for Doc’s sanity, Marty’s temper, and some of the townsfolk who needed complicated smith work done, the inventor had found a potential piece of property by June. It was located five miles from the center of town, and had been abruptly put on the market when the owner, Isaac Hiller, an older gentleman, died suddenly from a bout of pneumonia. It took several stressful weeks to gather the finances together and make an offer, but at long last, on the first day of July, the papers transferring the ownership were signed. Doc and Clara were now the proud owners of fifty acres, most of it wild, overgrown woods, including a large barn, and a sprawling two story farmhouse.

The home had been in decent condition, but after belonging to a bachelor farmer who’s family had all moved out or passed away before him, it did require some interior work. Doc had outlined a schedule to spend every weekend out there, working on minor house repairs and renovations. Marty had pledged to help him out; after all, he had somewhat of an invested interest, too. The sooner the home was complete, and ready to be moved into, the sooner he could stop living in the drafty, privacy-lacking barn. Being in a house again would bring back a little bit of normalcy and stability to his life again, which he desperately craved.

Doc’s target date to move in was the beginning of August. By that point, all the little furnishings that Clara’s parents were ordering for her would probably be in. Some of them had already arrived, and were residing under Marty’s supervision in the livery stable. The next month or so would be crazy, but Marty had to admit he didn’t mind that so much. When he was busy, he didn’t think so much about the less-than-desirable circumstances of his present life.

Marty jumped a little as people around him started to applaud. Blinking, he quickly followed suit. While he had been zoning out, the mayor had finally concluded his speech and cut through a ribbon that had been draped before the heavy oak doors of the courthouse. The town’s band launched into a brisk, patriotic tune while the early evening was lit up with flash powder from several cameras. He looked over at Doc and Clara, standing to his left.

“What now?” he asked as the crowd began to disperse.

“Are you hungry?” Doc asked, his arm around Clara. He glanced at his wife, including her in the question.

“Supper sounds very good,” Clara said, her enthusiasm clear in her voice. She cringed a little, blushing, almost as soon as the words left her mouth. “Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

“You’re pregnant,” Doc said, lowering his voice a little, so as to not be overheard by any of the locals and possibly offend them. Pregnancy, Marty had learned quickly, was something that was pretty taboo now. “You’re eating for two, after all.”

“If I keep eating in that manner, I may be the size of a house soon,” Clara said ruefully. “I suppose it is better than having an upset stomach.”

If he hadn’t known she was three months pregnant, Marty never would guess. He supposed she looked a little more glowy, but her waistline didn’t seem to be changed yet. He guessed that she was probably doing things with her corsets or skirts to hide it, but that brought up a whole new disturbing line of thought. Corsets on pregnant women...there just seemed something wrong with that!

Of course, she was only three months along. Maybe women didn’t show that early; he had no idea.

“What about you, Marty? Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, starving,” he admitted. “Let’s hit the food stands.”

They drifted away from the courthouse steps, Doc and Clara leading the way while Marty trailed behind several paces. He watched the couple for a moment, feeling sad, wistful and, ironically, completely alone in a place bustling with people. Just when he thought he was coping well, he would be blindsided by something seemingly minor, and seeing Doc and Clara act so lovey dovey -- watching his friend escort her through the crowd, one arm around her back, the other holding her hand -- was doing a great job of reminding him how much he missed home...and Jennifer.

Sometimes, late at night, he found himself panicking at some gaps in his memory. Like her voice -- the way she said his name, the sound of her laughter. After ten months, it seemed like he was gradually losing a little more to the ravages of time working over his memory. He still remembered what she looked like, though -- there had been a small photo headshot in his wallet of his girlfriend, and that wallet had managed to travel back to 1885 with him and survive the accident at the rails. He couldn’t post the photograph up -- at least not now, not in the barn -- but he looked at it at least several times a day. It had the paradoxical reaction of making him feel both better and worse.

I could cope so much better if she was here, Marty thought as he followed Doc and Clara through the crowd towards the booths of food. Or maybe even if I was single and never had her in the first place.

Frustratingly, his moral code invoked guilt whenever he happened to look at some of the pretty girls here, more from his commitment to Jennifer back in the future than anything Doc had to say about keeping interactions with the townspeople to a minimum. His relationship was on ice for a while, yes, but Marty knew that if he cheated on Jennifer, he would never be able to look her in the eye again, no matter what sort of pressures or circumstances had brought it about.

He had to stay strong -- but Marty wasn’t too worried about temptation. If he could fend off a very willing young woman, as he had the night Doc and Clara had married and he wound up in the room of one of the saloon’s “dancing girls,” he could deal with the cute girls he occasionally spotted around town.

The irony, he guessed, was that he heard from Clara that there were a number of young women his age who were interested in him. Ever since he had faced off against Buford Tannen, the townspeople of HIll Valley had encircled him, adopted “Clint Eastwood” as one of their own. For a while, in the fall, there had been a number of invitations to homes for dinner, some of whom had daughters that were about the same age as Marty. But he never was able to take anyone up on their hospitality; Doc would politely turn them down. Fears of unraveling the space-time continuum and all that. Marty had been a little peeved then, and he was still a little peeved now, mostly because it seemed to him that Doc didn’t follow the same rule. Saving the life, dating, marrying, and then impregnating a woman from another time was definitely not playing it safe.

“Do you know what you want?”

Marty jumped at the sound of the question, uttered by Doc. He hadn’t realized they had reached the food stands until then. He scanned the selections, then shrugged. “I don’t know, some of the barbecue smells good.”

“All right. Can you take Clara to a table? I’ll get the food.” Doc sighed as he surveyed the lines. “This may take a while.”

“All right...”

It may have taken Doc a while to get the food, but it took a bit of doing to find a place to sit. The new lawn before the courthouse was swarmed with people, picnic tables set up and crowded. Finally, an older couple who recognized Marty as Clint Eastwood, and Clara as the “sweet schoolteacher,” flagged them down as they were about to leave and gave them their spot. Before leaving, the old woman mentioned she had a granddaughter, “just about your age, Mr. Eastwood, and right pretty.” Marty smiled and managed to stammer out a response of, “Aw, that’s nice.” He didn’t notice Clara’s frown until the couple had walked off, out of earshot.

“Why don’t you meet the young lady, Marty?” she asked. “You certainly are entitled to make friends of your own here.”

“No I’m not,” Marty said bluntly, picking up a salt shaker that was set out on the table and rolling it between his fingers. “Doc’s already given me one too many lectures about the dangers of interacting with people here, blah blah blah. He’d have a stroke if I actually went on a date with some girl here. Besides, I think it’s unfair,” he added. “I’m with Jennifer. And if Doc isn’t feeding me full of BS, we’re supposed to leave here at some point. And that’d cause problems.”

“Yet surely you can make friends, at least,” Clara said, looking at him with concern. “I don’t think it’s terribly healthy to keep to yourself so much.”

Marty laughed, a little bitterly. “Well, argue about it with Doc, then. I’ve tried. Maybe it’s for the best, though. Whenever I’m out like this,or I’m talking to people one on one, I’m always afraid of saying something wrong or something about the future or whatever.”

Clara’s frown deepened, but at that moment Doc arrived juggling plates of food. He deftly distributed the portions -- tin plates of barbecued chicken, ears of corn, mashed potatoes, and a hot biscuit -- and produced three cold bottles of sarsaparilla that he had wedged into the pockets of his coat. Marty had barely taken two bites of his meal when Clara brought up the subject of a moment ago.

“Emmett, Marty tells me that you’ve limited his social outings here. Is that so?”

Doc, who had taken a set beside his wife and across from his friend, gave Marty a quick, puzzled stare. “I’ve strongly advised him against interacting with anyone here more than necessary, especially any ancestors,” he said. “It could cause some serious problems to the timeline.”

“Do you feel that is particularly fair to him?” Clara asked.

“It’s safe,” Doc said. “That’s the most important thing we need to be concerned about.”

“You’re depriving him of a social life,” Clara said, frowning at her spouse. “That cannot be healthy.”

“No, maybe not, but it can’t be helped now.”

Marty was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable by the way this conversation was going. “Look, Doc, it’s okay, I get it. I know why I have to keep a low profile. Clara, thanks, but you don’t need to bother.”

Clara looked like she wanted to say more, but Marty deftly cut her off by changing the subject. “So, Doc, how did you spend the fourth last year? Did they have a celebration like this?”

Doc’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed in thought. “The fourth last year? Oh, yes, that.” He took a bite of food, chewing and swallowing that before he answered. “Yes, I recall there was a picnic-type celebration. I kept mostly to myself, of course, trying to spend the day working on finding a way to repair the DeLorean.”

“Wow, you really know how to live it up,” Marty said dryly.

“Well...that was part of the problem, I recall. I thought I had stumbled across a breakthrough, and to celebrate I made the mistake of visiting the saloon and trying some of the whiskey.”

Marty arched an eyebrow at the news. “Really? You never told me that before!”

“Yes, well....”

“So what happened? Did you hit the deck after one shot, like last time?”

Doc glanced at Clara, clearly discomforted. The schoolteacher gazed at him curiously, a small smile curving the corners of her mouth. “No,” he said, reluctantly. “Not after one drink. I don’t honestly remember everything that happened afterwards. From what I was told, people found me quite entertaining. There was some dancing, some rambling stories, and when I woke up the next day, it was in one of the hotel rooms. Chester told me that he’d helped me up there around the time the place closed. I was quite ill the next day, too, no doubt from the sketchy methods used to distill alcohol and the sensitivity I’ve got.” He sighed at the memory, glancing again at Clara.

Marty tried to imagine a drunk Doc and smirked a little. He wanted more details -- this was news to him -- but knew that there was now ay his friend was going to spill the beans, not now before his wife. “So I guess that means I can go to the saloon tonight and get some whiskey myself, then....”

Doc caught his eye and shook his head once, clearly not amused. “I’m not going to be there to nurse you through another hangover. I don’t think it’s very smart to go drinking like that. It’s incredibly dangerous, too, in loosening your tongue.”

“Yeah, but whatever you say, people won’t think it’s weird. They’ll write it off as being drunk.”

“Marty....” Doc’s tone carried a definite warning note to it.

“Hey, spare me the lecture, it was just a joke.”

All conversation faltered for a moment. Then Clara, who had already consumed half her plate of food, brought up the subject of dancing on the raised floor that had been erected for the occasion. Doc hemmed and hawed for a few minutes about whether or not it was safe for her to do in her condition, until Marty pointed out that he had never heard of someone losing a baby just for doing a little low stress slow dancing. Pacified, after they had finished their food, Doc agreed to his wife’s request. They left Marty sitting at the table, the exclusion giving him another odd twist of homesickness in his gut. It also gave him the strangest deja vu about the town festival back in September. And he thought he had had problems then! At least, he supposed, there was no Tannen wandering around now, gunning for him or Doc.

After he finished his meal, he collected his plate, tossed it into a barrel that was being used for trash, and wandered around to look at the sights. The uptempo music drew him to the dance floor in short order. He sorely missed hearing music, as much as he missed performing it. In this time, there weren’t things like stereos with prerecorded music on it. Marty thought Doc mentioned before that phonographs existed by now, but his friend did not own one, and even if he had, Marty doubted that record selections now offered very much.

The band was a different one than had performed at the town festival back in September. They weren’t too bad, either. He watched Doc and Clara dancing for a moment, then sighed, wishing that he could hit the floor, too. There was nothing stopping him, he guessed, except that he didn’t have a clue how to do the type of dance steps that were popular now. A mischievous part of him wondered how the crowd here would take to the moonwalk, or even breakdancing.

“Why aren’t you out there, Mr. Eastwood?”

Marty turned at the sound of the girlish voice to his left. The owner of the question was a pretty brunette, around his age. Like the other women in this time, she wore the required overly modest long dress, and her curly hair was nearly concealed from view by a straw bonnet on her head. She smiled as Marty looked over at her, pink lips splitting to reveal a slightly crooked smile. He smiled a little in return.

“No dance partner,” he said. “And I never took lessons in whatever they’re doing.” He nodded towards the crowd on the dance floor.

The brunette clicked her tongue. “Well, I could teach you, Mr. Eastwood, if you wanted to learn.” As she spoke, her cheeks flushed with color, and she glanced down at the floor, clearly embarrassed. Marty didn’t get it, until he remembered that women now weren’t quite as forward as the ones he was used to. Of course, he remembered Doc mentioning once how Clara had pretty much dragged him on the dance floor last September, so it wasn’t always true.

Marty glanced at his friends, knowing that Doc wouldn’t like this, then shrugged. Wasn’t he entitled to a little fun himself? “Sure, uh....”

“Susan Irwin,” the brunette said. “You can call me, Susie.” She blushed again.

“And you can call me Mar--uh, Clint,” Marty corrected hastily. “Just don’t hold it against me if I step on your toes or anything.”

Susie giggled, then tentatively extended one hand to Marty. She led him to a quiet corner of the dance floor, where she could show him the steps without risk of being trampled upon. Marty picked it up quickly, once she demonstrated it a few times and he picked up the tempo. Unfortunately, just as he felt confident enough to try it out for real on the main dance floor, the song ended, and the band launched into a slower one.

“Oh, drat,” Susie said, sounding genuinely disappointed.

“It’s all right,” Marty assured her. “I think I can do this one without any trouble.” He looked at her and smiled. Susie blushed and accepted the hand extended to her, and they moved onto the floor with the other couples.

For a few minutes, Marty was really enjoying himself. He had forgotten how fun dancing was, especially dancing with a cute girl. Then he happened to look up and saw Doc staring at him from over Clara’s shoulder, his eyes wide. A brief turn, and Clara’s face appeared, her eyes catching his. She simply smiled, obviously pleased. Marty couldn’t help giving her a grin.

So Doc will lecture me later, he thought. What’s the big deal? Clara can obviously handle him if he wants to argue about it.

He looked away from the older couple and down at his dance partner’s face, resolving to stop thinking about the future...at least for a few minutes...and just enjoy the immediate present.

* * *

It was, Doc thought, bad enough that Marty had dared to dance with a girl at the July Fourth Festival. What happened later was simply inexcusable.

When the inventor had noticed his friend out there, with an attractive young woman of his age, his first reaction was to march over there, pull Marty aside, and rattle off a laundry list of possible negative effects such social interaction could have on the future. Clara, however, stopped him before he could even miss a step in their dance.

“Oh, hush, Emmett,” she murmured in his ear, gripping him hard. “Let him have some fun. I haven’t seen him smile like that...well, ever!”

Doc sighed, frustrated that she didn’t understand. “It’s too dangerous,” he said. “That young woman could be destined to meet someone tonight, the man she will marry. Or she could be engaged to someone and then that gentleman could see her, and decide to break off the engagement. There are a number of things that Marty could be changing, simply by one dance with this girl.”

“Oh, nonsense. It’s simply one dance, one night. Let him have this tonight. It’s not as if he is planning on proposing marriage to her over this. It’s perfectly clear to me how smitten he is with that young woman of his in the future.”

“Yes, well, Marty may love Jennifer, but she is quite far away now. He is an adolescent male. I know that he must miss the companionship of a woman.”

Clara looked at him and smiled, coy. “Tell me, Emmett, did you have any lady friends when you were his age?”

Doc snorted softly. “No. I wasn’t the type they went for. I was also in college when I was Marty’s age, and no coed was remotely interested in a seventeen-year-old kid who should’ve been in high school, still. But I sincerely didn’t mind at the time; my goals were not centered around landing someone of the opposite sex. Marty, however, is not me.”

Clara glanced at Marty and the mysterious brunette again, now at the far end of the floor. The teen was grinning. “Do you think he would cheat on Jennifer, then?”

“No. Not really. But he may not see any involvement with a girl here as cheating. He certainly can’t spend any time with Jennifer, and we may be here for years yet.” Doc sighed again. “Even if he can control himself and remain faithful, however, there is the issue that a girl who is destined to meet and marry another may have her heart broken by him. As a result, perhaps that girl would never marry the man she was supposed to, thereby detracting their children from the timeline. And their children’s children. And so forth. One atom out of place can cause serious problems down the line. Ray Bradbury said it best in his story, ‘A Sound of Thunder’...ah, but that won’t be written for another seventy years, I suppose.”

“Well, be that as it may, I think you should allow him some freedoms tonight,” Clara said. “I never knew him before you both arrived here, but Marty has struck me as rather...sad most of the time. I think he needs to socialize with others of his age. Goodness knows it can’t be very easy for him to have us as his only friends.”

“Ye-es,” Doc agreed, hesitantly. “But this is an unusual situation.”

The song ended, thus concluding their conversation, allowing the band to take a break. Doc lost sight of his friend in the crowd and took a step in the direction that he had last spotted Marty. Clara, however, firmly pulled him back in her direction.

“Oh no, you don’t, Emmett Brown. This is our night out, too. When we move into our new home, you know we won’t be out here as often as we are now. And pretty soon, I won’t be able to leave our home,” she added, glancing down at the almost imperceptible rise of her belly, concealed under layers of petticoats.

Doc frowned. “I don’t see them, now,” he grumbled.

“Well, good. Don’t fret so much about him, Emmett. He is responsible enough.”

Doc thought about a few of the decisions Marty had made in the last year along -- back in 1985 and here -- and groaned softly. “In some ways, but not all.”

Nevertheless, he allowed Clara to guide him in the opposite direction of where he had seen Marty and the girl head off. She was eager to look at some of the deserts that were being sold, including fresh ice cream. The inventor found himself rather amused by her sudden fascination with food. Two weeks ago he had been worried because she didn’t seem willing to eat anything at all, save for some dry toast and tea. That stage of pregnancy had apparently passed, thank goodness.

It was while he and Clara were splitting a piece of chocolate cake, with vanilla ice cream on the side, that the band took to the stage once more. Doc paid the music almost no mind -- but then he noticed something peculiar about the sound. Nevertheless, it wasn’t until Clara called it to his attention that he realized what was going on.

“Oh, look,” she said, glancing up from the dessert. “Marty’s up there with the band!”

Doc swiveled his head around, thinking that his wife had to be mistaken. But he saw, to his horror, he was not. Marty had replaced the man who had been playing a guitar earlier and -- worse yet -- was playing something that sounded nothing like the current songs of the period. The rest of the band seemed somewhat befuddled and somewhat entertained by this; they were letting him play alone, without joining in.

Doc was on his feet before he knew it. “He can’t do this!” he hissed, half to himself. He was barely aware of Clara’s reprimand to calm down, his full attention focused on the stage and on his friend -- who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

Doc briskly made his way forward, towards the band, hurrying as fast as he could through the mobs of people. Marty had promised him -- albeit reluctantly -- that he wouldn’t perform any of his music in public. Simply performing the current standards could cause harm, and Marty’s songs were definitely not that, heavily influenced by rock and roll...which wouldn’t even be heard for the next seventy years. The repercussions that could come about, the attention that this could draw to him and, by association, Doc and Clara, was simply unacceptable.

There was one advantage -- current technology did not have microphones and amplifiers. Thus, few seemed to be aware of Marty’s impromptu performance. Doc reached the stagefront within a minute or two of first hearing the chords. “Ma--Clint, what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, causing more than a few people to turn in his direction.

Marty’s fingers faltered, stopping their play. He looked down at Doc in surprise, then his eyes flickered to the inventor’s left. The young brunette woman that the inventor had spotted his friend dancing with was standing there, her face turned up towards the teen and a look of odd fascination on her face. “Playing,” he said. “What’s wrong with that? They asked me to come up here. The guitarist wasn’t feeling well, and they needed someone to stand in for him.”

Doc was shaking his head, even as his friend was talking. “No, I’m sorry, you can’t do that.”

Marty narrowed his eyes at him. Around them, people had grown quiet, ceased their chatter, all attention beginning to focus on the two time travelers. It didn’t help that Marty happened to be on the stage while this was going on. “Give me one good reason why not.”

Doc’s temper rose. “I can give you several,” he said tersely, well aware of the eyes on them. “Get down here, we’ll talk about it later.”

“No,” Marty said flatly. He started to play again, the chords louder and sharper, obviously venting his own anger.

Doc was all set to climb onto the stage and pull the instrument from his friend’s hand when he felt a hand grip his elbow from behind. “Let him be, Emmett,” Clara said, gently but firmly. “Let him have this tonight. He’s not hurting anyone.”

“No, Clara, you don’t understand,” Doc hissed.

Clara slipped forward, slipping one arm around his chest, wrapping him in what would seem to outsiders was a friendly embrace, but was in actuality a calculated move to prevent him from springing forward. “I understand perfectly,” she murmured in a low voice, lest anyone overhear them. “However, I think you need to let Marty have his way this time. Don’t worry so much about what may happen. Nothing will happen if he can share his gift this evening with everyone in town. It’s just music.”

“Plenty can happen,” Doc retorted, having the presence of mind to keep his voice soft as well. Those around them had lost interest in the inventor, had turned their eyes up to Marty and his performance. The teen was looking straight ahead at the crowd, deliberately ignoring the scientist. “It’s too dangerous.”

Clara sighed, the sound weary. “Emmett, is this what our life is going to be, now? Is this the kind of father you will be to our child? ‘No, you cannot do this. No, you cannot try this. Be mediocre. Don’t stand out. Don’t follow your talents. Why? Because it could end the world.’ Is this the kind of man I married?”

There was no anger in the words, only a deep concern. Doc’s temper abruptly cooled. He looked down at his wife, surprised and even a little hurt by her words. “Clara. You know what is at stake, here.”

Clara shook her head hard twice. “No, perhaps I do not,” she said, firmly pulling him away from the stage. Doc reluctantly allowed her. “I realize that there are very good reasons why we must keep to ourselves and why we need to eventually move back to your home. That, however, may be years away. In the meantime, we all have to live. For goodness sakes, by this time next year we will have a baby, a child to raise. I don’t want him or her getting it into their heads that to be different, to be special, to be talented is something that must be kept private. I do not want them to think they should not try at school, lest they earn high marks and possible scholarships or awards. I do not want them to feel that to live is a burden, not a gift.”

She stopped when they were off to the side, in the shadows and out of sight of the bulk of the crowd. “No wonder Marty is so dreadfully unhappy. He deserves some freedoms while he’s here. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of his own happiness. Isn’t that what this holiday is about?”

“Yes, but--”

Clara cut him off before he could start, reaching up and pressing her fingers firmly over his mouth. “Emmett, I love you, and I realize you are not behaving this way out of any sort of malice or spite. I know that it is dangerous for us all to be here, that it could make horrible things happen later on...but we do not know that for sure, do we? Can you honestly tell me that Marty will change history, change the world, by simply dancing with a girl tonight, and playing guitar on that stage?”

Doc stared down at his wife. Her eyes glittered in the dim light, as if she was holding back tears. “No, I cannot guarantee that,” he reluctantly admitted.

“Well, then, let him have this night. I do agree, involving himself romantically with anyone from here should be avoided. However, for all we know, that young woman out there is already engaged to someone. Or she simply wants to have fun this evening, nothing more.”

Doc sighed, the lecture hitting him in places that were already tender from guilt. “All right, Clara. Fine. He can enjoy himself tonight. But God help us all if he does anything that could skew history.” Doc shook his head, recalling the horrible Tannen controlled world of the future, and repeated the sentiment for good measure. “God help us all.”

* * *

Marty was quite glad at first when Clara led Doc away from the stage, and let him have his moment in the spotlight. Or at least perform for an audience for the first time since...well, the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance in 1955. For the first time since he had wound up stranded here for God knew how long, he was enjoying himself, having some fun, not viciously wishing to be anywhere else, and Marty fully intended to fight for that right. He knew he had to be careful, that trying to jam out a Hendrix or Van Halen solo would be frowned upon. But he didn’t see the danger in performing some of his own stuff, toned down for the audience here. He was sick and tired of being told what he could and couldn’t do, just because he happened to be waylaid in this backwards time and town.

But when minutes passed and he saw no sign of his old friend or Clara, he started to feel almost abandoned, and more than a little hurt. Yeah, he understood that Doc was probably a little mad at him for going up here, but for cryin’ out loud, didn’t he understand how difficult this whole thing was for Marty? It wasn’t fair. The inventor seemed to have everything -- local friends, a wife, a baby on the way -- even though it probably had more of a danger in changing things than anything Marty could possibly do.

Such thoughts circling through his head started to impede his playing. Marty hit a wrong note once, twice, before he dragged his mind back to the immediate task at hand. He glanced up at the audience, noted that Doc and Clara were not around again, and started to glance down at his hands when the smile of Susie caught his eye. The young woman hovered near the stage, her eyes locked on Marty, her gaze one of delight. In spite of the disappointment and anger, Marty managed a smile for her.

He wrapped up his original song a moment later and looked at the band. Words of praise and appreciation were handed out to him from the other musicians, along with a smattering of applause from those who had been within earshot. Then the band told him the name of a song they wanted to play, some local standard. Marty had no clue what it was, but after a minute or so of them playing it, he picked up the general tune and tempo to join in.

He stopped looking up to the audience, stopped thinking about Doc and Clara and not being at home in 1985 and everything else. Music, just living and breathing note to note, filled his whole vision and drove everything else out of sight. Time ceased to be an issue, a barrier, a limitation.

All too soon, however, the fun ended. The song came to a conclusion and Marty blinked, feeling as groggy and disoriented as if he had just awoken from a dream. He looked at the audience, applauding for both himself and the other members of the band, glanced down at the front of the stage, and saw Susie. But no Doc. At least, not until he looked up again, scanning the crowd, and caught sight of the scientist standing on the fringes, Clara at his side. Doc frowned faintly and shook his head once, his message clear. Marty looked away, deciding to ignore it.

“What’s next?” he asked the other men on stage.

For the next hour, Marty concentrated so hard on performing, of playing for the audience and trying to learn and pick up a lot of new songs, that he didn’t really think about Doc and Clara for a bit. When the band took another break, this one for the fireworks show, the teen slipped off the stage and was met immediately by Susie. The girl beamed.

“You are a wonderful musician!” she bubbled, matching his stride as he headed away from the stage. “Who taught you how to play?”

“Myself, mostly,” Marty said, after a moment’s hesitation. He didn’t think that confession could mess anything up. He figured that self teaching was a skill that still existed now.

“Really? You must be quite gifted. I had never heard that you could play.”

“Nobody has,” Marty said, bitterness leaking into his words.

“Why not?” Susie sounded as surprised as she looked. “You have talent.”

“It’s a long story,” Marty said, already wishing that he had kept his mouth shut. “I don’t really want to get into it right now.”

“All right,” Susie said, sounding stung. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no big deal,” Marty assured her. He stopped walking as streaks of light arched up above them, then exploded in a shower of white sparks. There were gasps and startled cries from everyone on the ground. Marty smiled faintly at the sight, turning his face towards the sky, but his pleasure at the sight was not shared by the young woman from this time. She grabbed hold of his arm and squeezed it hard.

“Goodness! What is that!”

“Fireworks,” Marty said, raising his voice a little to be heard above the pop of more rockets heading towards the sky. “Haven’t you seen ‘em before?”

“No, not really. Oh, do they have to be so loud?” Susie added as another rocket burst open to light up the night. Around them, the crowds made appreciative noises, ooos and ahhhs. Susie stepped closer to Marty, and the teenager became uncomfortably aware of how long it really had been since he had last been so close to a pretty girl. He swallowed hard, a little unnerved, unbidden memories of dates with Jennifer and the like crowding into his head with startling clarity.

Stop it, he thought, angrily. It’s not like you’re on a date with this girl! It’s not like you’re cheating on Jen. For Godsakes, McFly, you’re not dead; it’d be weirder if you didn’t feel anything when you saw a cute girl....

Unaware of his inner turmoil, Susie asked another question. “When did you see fireworks?”

The first time Jen and I kissed, the teen thought with a miserable stab of guilt. He took a step away from the girl, gently pulling his arm back. She let him go, a surprised look darting across her features. “Uh, at other town things,” he said vaguely. “Disneyland and all that, too.”

Susie blinked. “Disneyland?” she echoed, puzzlement clear in her voice. “What is that?”

Marty had to get out of here. It had been a while since he made such a blatant slip of the tongue. “It’s a park.... Listen, Susie, it’s been great, but I really gotta, uh, get back to my family now. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Another burst of sparks from above provided more than enough light to glimpse the hurt look that crossed the girl’s face. “Oh, yes, now that you mention it, I should look up my own family. Mama and Papa will probably scold me,” she added, though the flatness of her tone told Marty that it was the least of her worries.

Marty managed a hurried goodbye before turning away and trying to edge his way quickly through the crowd. A sick feeling of guilt, frustration, heartache, and regret formed a heavy ball in his gut. He suddenly wanted to be alone, to hide.

Unfortunately, a moment later his preoccupied path took him smack into Doc and Clara. The inventor caught him by the shoulder the moment he glimpsed his face, effectively stopping him.

“Marty! We need to talk.”

“Now, Doc?” Marty asked, miserably. “Don’t you and Clara want to see the fireworks?”

Clara, in fact, was gazing up at the heavens, a look of wonder on her face. Doc, however, had seen far more impressive pyrotechnics in his day and, like Marty, was rather unfazed.

“This is more important,” Doc said. “What on earth possessed you to play up there tonight?”

“Emmett,” Clara said, her tone one of gentle warning. She looked away from the sky to give Marty a brief, warm smile. “You sounded very good up there. Was that first song one of your own composition?”

“Yeah,” Marty said. “I just couldn’t sing the words to it without any kind of amp and mic system. You heard it from where you were? I didn’t see you guys after the first couple minutes,” he added, glancing at Doc meaningfully.

“We were out of sight, yes, but we could still hear you,” Clara said. She looked at her husband again, rather suspiciously, then turned her eyes back to the sky as the night was lit up again from above.

Doc looked torn. He looked at Marty, clearly angry, then looked at Clara and the expression would soften. Whatever internal battle rendered him momentarily speechless. Marty saw his way out.

“Look, Doc, Clara, I’m tired. I -- I just want to go to bed now.”

“At nine-thirty?” Doc asked, skepticism clear in his voice.

Marty lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve crashed earlier after we were working,” he said, which was true.

“Yes, but I don’t recall either of us working today,” Doc said dryly, which was also true. “You’re not going to wiggle out of this. You committed a very serious error tonight, Marty. You know you need to keep a low profile. Climbing before most of the town on a stage is not a way to do it. It’s--”

“Clint! Emmett! It’s a pleasure to see you here tonight.”

Marty and Doc both turned at the sound of the voice. Doc’s little lecture was conveniently interrupted by none other than Seamus McFly. The farmer had edged his way through the crowd, a mug of beer in one hand and his wife Maggie’s hand in the other. Maggie offered the trio a faint, tired smile, balancing son William McFly, aged 16 months, on one hip. The toddler was fixated on the fireworks above, his blue eyes as wide as saucers. Marty had heard via someone that the McFlys were expecting another baby, but he had no idea when that would be. Maggie didn’t really look pregnant -- but, then, women seemed to do everything possible to keep from looking like that here. He guessed she had to be further along than Clara, though.

“Hello, Seamus, Maggie,” Doc said, giving each a terse nod. “How are your horses doing? Any problem with the shoes?” Seamus had brought his horses by just a week before to be shoed.

“Nope, sir, none at all.” Seamus glanced up at the fireworks for a second. “Fine show they’re puttin’ on t’night, eh?”

“The best,” Marty said weakly. He always felt a little weird interacting with his ancestors. Seamus seemed to know too much sometimes, and the look he gave Marty at that moment -- penetrating, curious -- told him this was one of those times.

“Something the matter, lad?”

“No, everything’s cool -- uh, fine, everything’s fine.” That was the second time, now, he had slipped up. Doc’s eyes narrowed at the mistake, but he said nothing. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he added quickly, seeing an out. Doc couldn’t lecture him about stuff if the McFlys were right there. “Nice to see you Seamus, Maggie, Will.” He slipped away this time before Doc could reel him back.

In his haste to get away, he stepped on a lot of toes and jostled some small kids. Finally, however, Marty had made it to the street and was able to move with more speed. He walked quickly, keeping his head down, not up for chitchat. When he reached the relative privacy of the livery stable -- still his home, at least until Doc and Clara got the house up and running -- he sighed, relieved to be away.

Although he really did not have any intention of turning in for the night, the teen stretched out on the bed, fully clothed, in the dark. He stared up at the gaps in the roof, where patches of the clear night sky could be seen. A memory of stargazing with Jennifer once, after a football game a couple weeks before he had left, came unbidden, and -- alone, without anyone there to see or pry or ask -- Marty didn’t fight too hard against the tears that filled his eyes. God, he hated it here.

A few minutes later, however, his quiet introspection and mourning was interrupted. He heard purposeful footsteps approach from the street, and a moment later the sound of the door creaking open. “Marty?” Doc called out.

Immediately, even if he was not in sight, Marty rolled onto his side, away from the direction of the door, and closed his eyes, trying to feign sleep. He didn’t want to see or speak to anyone right now, least of all Doc.

The inventor’s footsteps sounded on the floorboards a moment later, slowly approaching Marty’s living space. Marty let his mouth fall open, his senses fully alert, and tried to breathe as slowly and deeply as possible. He thought about throwing in a snore or two, but decided that might be pushing his luck.

Just go away, he thought, willing Doc to turn around. I’m not here.

Marty heard Doc draw back one of the curtains that provided him some measure of privacy from the shop. “Marty?”

The teen held very still, feeling as rigid as a statue, even as he tried desperately to look as relaxed as possible. “Marty,” Doc said again, not bothering to lower his voice, a note of warning in his voice.

“Emmett?”

Great; that was Clara, now. Next he’d probably hear the McFlys trouping in.

“I’m back here,” Doc said.

Clara’s heels sounded on the wooden floorboards a moment later. “Oh,” she said softly. “Emmett, he’s sleeping!”

“No, he’s not,” Doc said immediately.

“What makes you think so?” Clara spoke in a whisper, while Doc made no effort to lower his voice.

“I can tell,” the inventor said simply. Marty sensed his friend was standing above him, staring at him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the sensation of scrutiny, but he gave no indication that he was so vividly awake.

“Can you?” Clara said, her tone one of uncertainty. Without giving her spouse a chance to answer, she added in a low voice, “I think we should leave, Emmett. It’s getting late and we have a dark drive before us. If you want to speak with Marty, do so later, when he is awake and can answer you back. I don’t think you should be so hard on him, however. Not about this. He knows your feelings on this matter, but he’s young, Emmett. He should be able to interact with others his age and should be able to share his talents with others. Don’t be angry with him for such small things.”

Marty felt a wave of gratitude towards Clara. It surprised him at odd little occasions like this to realize that he really did like her. It just kind of sucked she had to get so mired in with Doc in a lot of ways.

Doc sighed heavily at the suggestion. “Fine,” he said flatly. “I suppose we can talk about this later.” Marty listened as their footsteps moved away from the bed, off the hardwood floor entirely and to the packed dirt. He did not move for another minute, not until he heard the telltale creak of the door as they left the building. Then he opened his eyes -- and sighed at his shadowy surroundings.

How much longer is this hell going to drag on? he wondered, thinking of his time back here. Not knowing when he would get to leave, he guessed, was the worst part. He knew it wouldn’t be next month. Or in six months. Or probably a year from now. But the idea of spending another year, minimum, here, made him just sick. The days, weeks, and months seemed to stretch out, unending, requiring him to behave, not stir up any trouble, repress himself in a number of ways. Marty felt like he was in prison, isolated from even being himself. If he dared to do anything he really enjoyed -- socializing with cute girls, playing his music in a public setting -- Doc was there to scowl at him and shake his head, then give him scathing lectures on Why You Can’t Do That. Marty was sick and tired of being forced to worry about changing the whole world; it wasn’t his problem. He didn’t chose to live here.

He sighed again as he rolled over on his back, staring up at the gapes in the ceiling again. Maybe things would be better once he was out of this barn. Maybe once he was in a real home again he would stop feeling so frustrated, so alienated, so isolated.

But if not..... God help him.

Monday, August 2, 1886
1:33 P.M.

“Clara! What on earth do you think you’re doing? Put that down and take a seat!”

Clara Brown frowned at her husband as she turned around and set down the dining room chair she had picked up. “Oh, Emmett, it’s not that heavy.”

Emmett frowned as he pulled a box out of the back of the buckboard wagon. “I don’t care! You’re in a delicate condition; you shouldn’t be lifting anything right now. Marty and I can handle moving things.”

Clara pursed her lips together. Ever since the doctor had told them she was expecting, he had been almost impossible to live with. When he wasn’t fretting about the possible repercussions that their child could usher in, from his or her mere existence, he was fretting about her health, and that of their unborn baby. It was slowly making Clara crazy. She was used to being independent, of doing things herself. Therefore, to be told and admonished to not do them -- to, in fact, not do much of anything -- was a thoroughly baffling and frustrating affair. Never had she felt more helpless and annoyed than now, on the day that she and Emmett were moving into their first home.

Clara was already in love with the place; with a bit of cleaning and the proper furnishings, it would become a beautiful home. There was more than enough space in the farmhouse for herself, Emmett, and Marty -- who would be staying with them now -- to spread out, even after the baby arrived. Emmett, for his part, was pleased with the barn on the property, which was of a sturdy construction. It would allow him ample room for his projects and inventions without worry of discovery. There was even a very large cellar under the barn, as the former tenant had owned adjacent farmland and was well known for his preserves and goods in town.

The home had been cared for but, being about twenty years old, it did require some repairs. During the month of July, every weekend when he could get away, Emmett had been out with Marty, fixing the home up, putting a fresh coat of paint on the exterior, and painting, wallpapering, and polishing things within the home to Clara’s specifications. She helped as much as her paranoid spouse would allow with the work, though her job mostly seemed to be selecting the decorations and colors within the home. Emmett also spent considerable time modifying the barn and cleaning it out as a workshop for his inventions and the eventual time machine.

By the start of August, as planned, the home was ready to be furnished and house its new owners permanently. Just in time, from Clara’s perspective; the new schoolteacher for Hill Valley was due to arrive in mid-August, at which point they would be evicted from the cabin.

“If you aren’t going to allow me to move even the simplest of things, what, pray tell, am I permitted to do, then?” she asked her husband, folding her arms across her chest. “Watch you menfolk sweat and stagger about?”

Marty stepped out of the house and descended the porch steps, passing Clara who stood at the bottom. “You could make us lemonade, ma’am,” he said, with a straight face.

The mother-to-be sniffed softly at the suggestion, not finding it all that funny. It was quite warm out, however, and the idea did have a bit of merit to it, she hated to admit.

“Any other requests, then?” she asked dryly.

Emmett paused at the bottom of the steps and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Stay out of this heat,” he said. “I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

“Emmett, I’m not an invalid, for goodness sakes.” Miffed, she turned and headed up the steps to the back door of the home, which conveniently led right into the kitchen. She vented some of her frustrations rattling around through the boxes of kitchen supplies that had arrived a week before from her family back east. She was certain that there was a pitcher in one of the cartons.

My first order of business should be putting this kitchen in order, Clara thought as she poked around, finally locating the pitcher on the third try. She wondered if her husband would protest that small act. Most likely, yes. She sighed, pausing to slide a hand over her stomach. Under the layers of petticoats that carefully concealed her condition, she could feel her waistline changing, her stomach slowly rising around the curve of a budding child.

The doctor had told her she would have the baby in late December, by his calculations, just in time to welcome the new year. In just a month or two, when her belly grew too large to hide under petticoats and such, she would have to conceal herself from the stares of neighbors and friends by remaining in the house. Clara wasn’t looking forward to that, and she found the idea of trying to physically hide a pregnancy rather exasperating, if not challenging, at times. In the west, they were more tolerant about such things than they would be back east, but there were still limits, and Clara’s Victorian upbringing made her more sensitive than a woman raised in the west might be. According to Emmett, women in the future were under no such restrictions, enjoying great freedom in the public eye until the delivery date of their child. The mere idea boggled her mind.

Until her own pregnancy, the only woman she had seen up close in the same condition had been her mother when she had been expecting her sister Charlotte. She hadn’t even known what to expect about having a child until the doctor had told her, days after her fainting spell at school. It sounded rather frightening to the former teacher, and she found herself grateful to be married to a man who had a surprising wealth of knowledge about the matter. It was a little embarrassing at times to know that Emmett knew more about her body and its state than she did, but it was also oddly comforting.

At least, Clara reflected as she hunted about for the sugar, she was starting to feel less embarrassed around Marty. Ever since her husband had blurted out the news of her condition to him, that day in early May, she had found herself feeling jumpy and uncomfortable around him. She knew what her condition implied to others, and Marty had struck her as a particularly savvy young man. Intimate relations between men and women, Emmett had told her, were no secret in the future. In fact, he cautioned her, it was pretty overt in the future’s popular culture and entertainment, the facts of life taught to students in middle schools and even written about in the city newspaper! Having intimate relations prior to marriage was more accepted, as was birthing a child out of wedlock. Clara found it hard to imagine but, as Emmett reminded her frequently when he shared information about his world with her, times changed.

Her nineteenth century upbringing in a conservative New Jersey town was therefore putting her in a fair amount of discomfort around Emmett’s friend. To a degree she considered Marty as inherited family, but society had taught her to keep her condition privy to simply her blood family, and her spouse. The idea that Marty knew things -- and, in fact, likely knew more than she herself about the origins and whatnot of a pregnancy -- made her want to burn with mortification. His behavior towards her, since the announcement, had been unchanged and utterly nonchalant, but Clara couldn’t help feeling flustered when she was around him, especially as her condition became more obvious and apparent.

Emmett calling attention to it every single day, right before him, didn’t help matters, either.

Clara sighed as she located the sugar and cleared off enough of the kitchen table to set the pitcher down. There were some lemon trees adjacent to the house, as well as a couple orange and apple trees that Mr. Hiller had maintained. Earlier the prior evening, Emmett had collected some of the fruit that had remained on the branches and brought it into the house to be used before it could go bad. Clara started searching through more boxes for the metallic juicer that she recalled, then threw her hands up in the air.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, rolling back the sleeves of her calico dress. “How on earth does Emmett expect any cooking to go on when I can’t find a thing in my kitchen?”

She opened the cabinets that were built in the kitchen, finding the roll of paper and scissors that she had bought for the particular chore of lining the shelves, and decided to get to work.

She was standing on a stool, leaning in to set some paper down, when she heard footsteps come through the door, and an outraged voice exclaim, “Clara! What on earth do you think you’re doing up there?”

Clara rolled her eyes, safely out of view of her spouse. “Emmett, honestly,” she said, leaning out to look at him. “If you won’t allow me to help you and Marty move boxes and furniture into the house, at least allow me the dignity of putting my kitchen in order! How do you expect me to make a thing when all of our supplies are boxed up?”

Emmett stood in the doorway, his arms weighted down with another crate, staring at her with concern. Marty came up from behind, urging him out of the way as he carried a chair under each arm. “Leave her alone, Doc,” he suggested as he slipped sideways through the door. “Clara’s not gonna keel over if she’s putting stuff away. Besides, she’s right; we can’t exactly order takeout now.”

Clara gave Marty a faint nod of approval, then turned back to the task at hand. “I’ll be fine,” she added to her husband, smoothing out the paper on the wooden shelf. “If I feel faint, I’ll sit down and rest. I’m not a fool.”

Emmett sighed loudly, then continued onward through the swinging kitchen door that led directly into the dining room. Clara smiled a moment, satisfied by her small victory, then picked up the roll of paper to cut another sheet.

By the early evening, while Marty and her husband worked at emptying the two buckboard wagons that they were using to transport items from town, and then made another trip to and from town to bring another load of furniture, supplies, and personal belongings, Clara had managed to get the kitchen into some semblance of order. It wasn’t finished by any means, but at least now she could bake and cook without tripping over anything, or having to pause constantly to find a missing utensil or ingredient. When Emmett and Marty returned from their last trip into town for the day, she had supper -- a simple meal of soup and cornbread -- simmering on the cast iron stove, and a promise to have it on the table within the hour. She couldn’t help beaming in pride when Emmett walked into the kitchen and noticed everything she had accomplished in the few hours he had been gone.

“Great Scott! It looks like a real kitchen now!”

“Well, it ought to, after all the work it took to get it organized. It’s not perfect, of course, but it shall do until the move is complete. How many more trips will it take before you are done?”

The inventor reached up to remove his hat and rake the back of his palm against his forehead. It had been a hot day, and he had spent most of it lifting and moving heavy things. “At least two more, with both the wagons,” he said. “Your folks certainly spared no expense!”

“Don’t start fretting about that now, Emmett,” she warned, knowing exactly where his mind was drifting. “Mama and Papa can afford to be so kind, and it would have offended them terribly if we hadn’t accepted their gifts. Besides, if you hope to complete your new time machine, I don’t believe we had a choice. Not unless we wanted to live like paupers for the duration of our time here.”

Emmett sighed, the sound rueful. “I know,” he said softly. “I just can’t help but think of the repercussions.”

“Oh, hang the repercussions!” Her husband looked so flabbergasted by her sharp tone that Clara almost laughed. “I mean it, dear,” she added, half apologetically. “You can’t worry so much about things that are outside of our control. And this is,” she said, touching the faint curve of her belly. “When this child is born, there is very little we’ll be able to do to control him or her.”

Her husband sighed again. “I know that,” he said. “But, Clara, you have no idea what horrible things can happen with time paradoxes. You haven’t seen them up close.”

“And you have?”

“I’ve seen enough. I’ve seen worlds thoroughly twisted and altered beyond almost all recognition from seemingly innocent mistakes made. I don’t ever want to come home to a future like that again.”

Clara slipped an arm around her husband’s waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Do you really think our child would do that?” she asked, both curious and faintly horrified.

Emmett reached up to stroke her hair, gathered in a knot at the back of her head. “I would hope not,” he murmured. “But who can tell?”

Clara closed her eyes a moment as her husband touched her, suddenly feeling sleepy and relaxed. That seemed to be one of the biggest changes she had noted about her condition; she found herself more tired than normal. At least the dizzy spells and the nausea had passed after June. She looked up at her husband, impish ideas suddenly crowding into her head as they did too often now. Perhaps it had to do with those strange changes in her body from the pregnancy; Emmett had told her before that her body chemistry would shift during this time, and she would likely find herself more sensitive to emotions than normal. She had found that to be as true as the other facts he had shared with her about this condition. It bothered her a little; she sometimes felt as if her feelings, not rationality, controlled her now.

But there were some other benefits to it as well, ones that her husband seemed to particularly enjoy.

Emmett looked at her as she stared at him with a faint smile. Perhaps her eyes held a sort of gleam, or he was all too familiar with the look on her face. At any rate, he smiled in a sort of secret understanding. “Mrs. Brown, what are you thinking about?” he asked.

Clara demurely lowered her eyes. “Later, Mr. Brown,” she said coyly. “I don’t believe that now is the time or place for me to share such things with you. Not in the kitchen of our new home.”

Emmett blinked. “Our new home,” he murmured, sounding distant. “Great Scott, I almost forgot.....”

Before Clara knew what was happening, her husband had swept her bodily off her feet, carrying her in his arms out the back door. “Emmett Brown! What are you doing?” she demanded, still clutching the wooden spoon from the stove in her hand.

“I’m not going to miss the opportunity to carry the wife across the threshold of our new house,” Emmett said, briskly walking around the porch to the front of the house. Clara caught a glimpse of Marty, who was busy trying to free a small table from the back of the wagon near the back steps. He gawked at them a moment as they passed, looking thoroughly confused. A moment later, Emmett had nudged open the front door. He paused, rather dramatically, on the front porch.

“Tradition dictates that the husband of a newlywed couple should carry his spouse across the threshold, into their new home,” he said, not even winded by her weight. “Since this is our first real home, I feel that it’s only appropriate for me to do the same.”

Clara giggled as Emmett carried her into the house, walking through the hallway to the kitchen, where he once more set her back on her feet. “Welcome home,” he said, pausing long enough to give her a kiss. He started to lean back, but Clara wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss in exchange, letting this one linger longer than her husband’s.

She would have liked to kiss him longer, but she heard the clatter of footsteps as Marty came into the house. “Yo, Doc, can you give me a hand out here?” he called out, his voice clearly reaching the occupants in the kitchen.

The couple broke apart immediately. Clara sighed softly at the interruption, feeling as regretful as her husband looked. “Go on, Emmett,” she said, giving him a pat on the shoulder before returning to her place at the stove. “By the time you unload the wagons, I should have supper ready and on the table.”

“Don’t strain yourself too hard,” Emmett warned before leaving the kitchen. She sighed again at his departure, a little irritated by the reminder about her condition, then turned back to stir the pot of soup.

“I just hope you arrive on time,” she murmured under her breath, directing her words to the unborn child. “If you’re late, I don’t know how I will manage my sanity.”

* * *

Moving in 1886, Marty quickly discovered, was hard, backbreaking work.

While he had never moved before -- by the time he was born, his parents had already owned the home in Lyon Estates -- he had always envisioned it as being something one would hire actual movers for, other people to do the lifting and packing. Here, of course, that was not an option. While Marty suspected that some of the townspeople would be happy to help Doc and Clara move into their new home, the inventor was unwilling to ask or even accept any offered help. Thus, this left the two of them to do all the heavy lifting and moving. Clara, being four months pregnant, was unable to help, according to Doc. Ever since it was discovered she was expecting, Marty had seen a whole new side of his friend -- one that involved a hell of a lot of worrying and anxiety. He wondered how bad Doc was going to be once the baby was actually born.

Having cleared the schoolteacher’s cabin out of personal artifacts, the time travelers had moved most of Doc’s stuff out of the livery stable, as well as the boxes that had been arriving via train for the last month or so, filled with orders that Clara’s parents had made to furnish the new home. Between all the lifting, the long, rough rides to and from town, and the heat of the summer day, Marty was positively dead on his feet by sunset. He could hardly keep his eyes open through dinner. After he finished eating and excused himself, he headed for the room down the hall that was bestowed to him.

The house, he had to admit, was pretty neat, with plenty of space. There were two floors to the home, not including the attic space. Upstairs were four spacious bedrooms, one of which was going to be Doc and Clara’s, another would be the baby’s, and Clara would take another as a sewing and craft room. The smallest of the four bedrooms had been set aside to perhaps convert to a bathroom, when and if Doc was able to dig a septic system and order the proper supplies from Sears and Roebuck.

Downstairs was the kitchen at the back of the house, with plenty of windows that looked onto the back of the property and the barn. Adjacent to the kitchen was a small eating alcove. There was a dining room, which ran into a sort of formal living room, which could be sealed off from the entryway with a set of french doors. If one came into the house from the front door, these would be to their right, the stairs would be before them, and to their left would be a hallway that snaked past the stairs to the kitchen at the back. Off this hallway was another brief corridor, from which branched three rooms. One of these was Marty’s bedroom. Doc and Clara seemed keen on turning the other two into a guest room -- in the unlikely event that someone would visit overnight -- and a study for Doc.

Marty made his way through the dim hallway, lit only by the last sunlight of the day as it streaked through the uncovered windows in the home. He yawned widely as he stepped over a box to reach his door, feeling sore all over from the exersion of the day. Thank God that Doc had insisted on moving over his bed the day before, and assembling it then. It had been a bitch to take apart the brass bed from the livery stable, then get it through the narrow hallways of the farmhouse and reassemble it. (The mattress had actually been easier to move in many respects.) The inventor had believed, wisely, that after a day spent moving things from the first light of dawn, a bed would be a most necessary reward. The young man had spent the night before on a cot back in the stable -- his last night there, mostly to keep an eye on Doc’s stuff before it was moved over on Monday. He didn’t think he’d miss staying there at all.

At least Doc hadn’t had to move a bed upstairs. He had purchased a few pieces of furniture from the owner’s estate, and that included the handcrafted four poster bed in the largest room upstairs. The fact that the former owner had died in that very bed didn’t seem to faze the scientist or his wife. For his part, Marty was rather relieved the furniture wasn’t intended for his use. He wasn’t sure if he could swallow that fact with such ease.

Clara had made up his bed with freshly laundered sheets earlier that day. The air in the house was still too hot, even with the window wide open, and Marty was too lazy to turn down the lightweight quilt to reveal the sheets. He paused to remove his boots, then stretched out on top of the covers, remaining fully dressed in the lightweight cotton shirt, pants, and suspenders he had worn for the day’s labors. He remained awake only long enough to note how quiet it was out here, away from the activity downtown, before he was asleep.

Ironically, it was a noise that woke him later. He heard -- or thought he heard -- someone groaning, as if in pain. The sound jarred him abruptly awake, his eyes snapping open. For a moment, he had no idea where the hell he was; he had rolled onto his side in his sleep, to face the wall, and a half-moon had risen, casting strange shadows through the open window.

The noise that he had heard in his sleep sounded again -- a low groan. Marty felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as his eyes grew wide in the dark room. A ghost, he thought immediately. Isaac Hiller had died in the home; it seemed only fitting that his spirit would restlessly roam the halls.

Marty remained frozen where he was for a moment, then sat up and turned around. He half expected to see some ghostly form hovering at his bedside, glaring at him, but the room was utterly empty.

What the hell? he wondered, confused. He thought he heard something again and cocked his head to one side, listening hard. The floor above him creaked loudly once... twice... three times. It sounded almost like a tapping or a rocking or--

Marty was on his feet before he knew it, his eyes wide in horror as he realized what those sounds signified. His bedroom was located right under Doc and Clara’s, which meant--

No, no, no, no, no! he thought firmly, fleeing his room as fast as he could. The sooner he distance himself from any sort of sound, the better off his sanity would be. Marty paused only when he reached the foot of the stairs near the front door, reluctantly straining his ears. Hearing nothing as disturbing as what he had caught in his room, he sat down on the bottom step, wondering what to do now. There was no way he was going go back in that room anytime soon!

The darkness, silence, and lack of distraction made his brain rehash the sounds he had heard, and he grimaced. It was bad enough he had to hear such things in the Palace Hotel the night after his friend had married. But now? Here? Marty knew that they engaged in such acts -- Clara’s pregnancy made that perfectly obvious -- but he preferred to pretend that they didn’t do that sort of thing. It was like thinking about his parents, or even his brother and sister. It was just...wrong.

He stood up again, feeling twitchy and uncomfortable, wandering into the living room with a sort of nervous energy. Here, the ticks and tocks of a couple clocks broke the quiet, and created a sort of white noise that would likely conceal any sounds from upstairs. The windows, like the others in the home, were uncovered and bare, lacking any curtains or shades. The shafts of moonlight were enough to let Marty avoid tripping over any boxes and falling flat on his face. He wrestled open a couple of the windows in the room, desperate for some fresh air in the hot and stuffy home. Once that was taken care of, he sat down on the edge of one of the couches that Clara’s parents had bought, a stiff Victorian number that wasn’t much more comfortable than a padded wooden bench. Why, Marty wondered, did so much of the furniture now have to be so uncomfortable?

He leaned against the back of the couch, the stuffy, hot air giving him a vaguely claustrophobic sensation. Marty wondered how long he was going to be ejected from his room. He didn’t want to risk going back too early and enduring more trauma. On the other hand, he felt mildly offended that he had to be out here at all.

Can’t they do it quietly or something? he wondered, fidgeting a little. Maybe that was difficult to do in an older building like this; he had already noticed how audible footsteps were if someone was walking around on the second floor directly above. The floorboards would creak and pop quite noticeably. Funny, he always heard people make comments about how older buildings were more solidly built and whatnot.

A small part of him toyed with the idea of going upstairs and knocking on his friend’s bedroom door. That would probably quiet them down. But a larger part of Marty cringed at the very idea of letting Doc or Clara know in any way, shape, or form what he had heard. No, he’d just have to deal with it tonight, hope it was some kind of strange celebration for the both of them in honor of the move, and that it wouldn’t occur again any time soon. Especially since Clara was pregnant; wasn’t that, like, dangerous to do then or something?

Marty fixed his eyes on the clock set on the mantle above the fireplace, noting that it was a quarter ‘til two A.M. He sighed deeply then settled back to wait the situation out.

The time passed slowly. In spite of sitting up on the uncomfortable furniture, he eventually managed to doze a little, then would wake with a start each time the clock on the mantle chimed the hour.

Around four A.M. he felt emboldened -- and exhausted -- enough to risk a return to his room. Silence, thank God, reigned once again. He fell onto the bed, sighing in relief.

An hour later, however, just as the first light of dawn was touching the horizon, he was shaken awake by Doc. The inventor was fully dressed and eager to get started on resuming the move. It took a supreme act of will for Marty to seem remotely awake then, since he’d had no more than five or so hours of real sleep after a long, grueling day. He envied Doc’s stamina and cheerfulness -- but, of course, he had a reason to be like that.

Marty hoped that the night before had been a rather isolated incident. Those hopes, unfortunately, were dashed the very next night...and the next...and the next. Every night, anywhere from midnight to three A.M., the teen would find himself jarred awake from noise above as Doc and Clara engaged in intimate acts with each other. He tried everything to shut it out -- closed the window, pulled the pillow tight over his head, even stuffing cotton in his ears. But it was no use. He would still catch some audio disturbance -- or would imagine he had.

It soon became a habit for him to go to bed in his room, wake from the sounds after three or four hours’ sleep, drag his pillow out to the living room (or parlor, as Clara called it), and try to catch some intermittent shuteye on the pathetic excuse for a couch. He wouldn’t do more than doze, if that, waking each time the clock hit the top of the hour. When the clock struck four A.M., he would move back to his room for the duration of the night.

After a week of this hell, Marty found he was starting to seriously unravel. He was too embarrassed to bring the problem up with Doc, let alone Clara. After the grind of the move, while Clara went about working on decorations and getting everything set in the proper places, Doc resumed his normal job of the town blacksmith, commuting the five miles into town with Marty every morning. (It would take an hour each way on horseback.) When he would return in the evening, the inventor would then work on modifying the barn and preparing it to be his lab and workshop. Marty, wanting to get home as soon as possible, would help him out, but he was seriously dragging.

As hard as he worked trying to keep up the facade -- and stay awake anytime he was not on his feet -- his exhaustion was apparent to both Doc and Clara. Two separate times, each had stopped him to ask if he was feeling okay. He told them he was fine, just trying to get used to the new routine, and each had bought it.

But the human body -- even that of an eighteen-year-old -- can only go for so long without proper rest. And Marty reached the limit of his reserves after little more than a week....

Wednesday, August 11, 1886
6:41 P.M.

After a week in the new home, life had settled down to a comfortable routine. On weekdays, Doc would rise early, near dawn. After dressing and putting on the coffee, he would rouse Marty from his room on the first floor. A quick breakfast, and they would ride out to town, a journey of an hour now. In the late afternoon, after putting in a full day’s work, Doc would wrap things up and the pair would ride back to the white farmhouse. The daylight dictated the schedule; Doc didn’t want to make the journey in the dark with the wild animals that roamed about, even if he was armed with a rifle.

By the end of that first half week of commuting -- the inventor hadn’t gone to his business until the first Wednesday after the move -- Doc started to worry a little about Marty. The young man had grown increasingly quiet and rather cranky. It was difficult to pry him from his bed every morning, and he seemed a little jumpy and distracted, as if something was bothering him. Polite inquiries about that were met with breezy rebuttals and the excuse that he was simply trying to adjust to living outside of the town.

On the second Wednesday following their move, eight days into the new living arrangements, the pair of time travelers had returned to the house around 6 P.M., a bit later than their usual time. After putting the horses out in the pasture, Doc had gone upstairs to wash up and make an attempt, however vague, to scrub the soot off his hands, arms and face with a bar of lye soap. Clara had apologetically informed him that supper would be a little late when he had come in through the back door. So, after scrubbing up and changing out of his sooty work clothes, Doc descended the stairs to the parlor, hoping to have a few quiet moments to read the paper and see what was going on locally.

With the day’s newspaper tucked under one arm, Doc slipped through the ajar french doors, which separated the foyer from the parlor -- and stopped.

Marty had gone ahead of him into the house, while Doc had put the horses into the pasture for the night. Doc had assumed he had gone into his room, where he seemed to spend a lot of time in the evening, presumably working on his music.

Instead, the inventor found him sprawled on his stomach across the length of the elegant Victorian couch, feet hanging over the arm. In spite of the discomfort the local period furniture possessed -- it was far more form than function as far as the scientist was concerned -- Marty seemed to be sound asleep, his head and one arm drooping off the edge.

Doc was so thoroughly surprised that he simply stopped a moment and stared -- then grimaced. Marty had clearly made a beeline from the kitchen straight to the couch. His face was still smudged with soot, as well as his clothing.

Clara is going to have a fit if she sees him on the furniture like that, Doc thought, setting the newspaper down on the armchair near the window. He stepped over to the couch and gently shook Marty by the shoulder, attempting to wake him. Marty didn’t stir.

Doc heard the soft sounds of hinges squeaking. He looked up and saw Clara come into the dining room from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Supper’s just about done,” she announced, walking into the living room as she spotted her husband. “I’m sorry about the delay.”

“That’s all right,” Doc said softly. Clara circled around the foot of the couch and, for the first time, noticed Marty. She frowned immediately, but the words out of her mouth were not the ones that Doc had expected.

“Goodness, he must be tired! The poor dear.”

“Yes, well, I can’t see why, unless he’s not sleeping at night,” Doc said softly, stepping to his wife’s side. “Something is bothering him, but I can’t put my finger on what it may be.”

Clara gazed down at Marty, her brow furrowed in concern. “Do you think we should wake him?” she asked.

“He shouldn’t spend the entire night on that couch,” Doc said. “I’m not about to carry him to his room. Besides, you’ve worked hard on the meal, and if he doesn’t eat now, he’ll probably be hungry later. I’ll rouse him in a few moments.”

The former teacher looked rather uncertain, but she turned and took a step back towards the kitchen. Then she stopped abruptly, a hand to her stomach. Her eyes grew wide and her lips pursed into a small O. Doc’s first feeling when he saw her face was pure alarm. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his full attention abruptly on her.

“The baby....” Clara murmured.

Doc felt his blood pressure abruptly rise. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Does it hurt?”

There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity before Clara shook her head. “No, no, it doesn’t hurt. It just.... I think the baby moved, Emmett.”

Doc was at her side a second later, pressing the palm of his own hand to his wife’s stomach. “Where?” he asked. “What did it feel like?”

“It’s hard to describe,” Clara said. She suddenly looked a little pale and stepped away from her husband to sit down in a nearby chair. “How odd.”

The room was quiet for a moment before Doc asked a follow up question. “Do you feel anything else?”

Clara shook her head again, frowning with an intense sort of concentration. “No, nothing else. Oh, Emmett, there’s something in there! Something in there that’s alive!” Her voice had an excited, amazed, breathless quality to it.

“Well, yes, what did you expect?”

“It didn’t seem entirely real until now,” Clara murmured, her hand drifting to rest over her belly once more.

Doc had to admit that she had a point there. Although he certainly wasn’t familiar with the sensations a woman had while pregnant, he did realize that his own heart was still racing with excitement and amazement over this sudden development. Clara could now feel the child moving within -- and, soon, he would probably be able to feel the baby kick. He smiled at the very idea.

“Is it moving again?”

“No,” Clara said, clearly disappointed. “I wish it would.”

The inventor chuckled softly. “I suspect that by the time you deliver, you’ll feel it move far too much. I wish I could feel it, but I guess I’ll have to wait until it starts kicking you more.”

Clara stood once more, letting out a deep breath. “Well, next time I feel something, you’ll be the first to know,” she said, leaning over to give him a kiss. “I’ve got to get supper on the table, now.”

Doc turned his attention back to Marty as his wife headed out of the room, one hand still resting on her belly. The young man had been undisturbed by the conversation nearby, having remained in the same place and in the same position during the last few minutes. Doc shook him again, more forcefully this time, until Marty opened his eyes. He looked vaguely confused and more than a little groggy as he sat up and took in his surroundings.

“What’s up?” he mumbled, blinking hard.

“Supper,” Doc said. “Are you feeling all right, Marty?”

Marty stood up, rather stiffly, and stretched. “I’m fine, Doc,” he said around a yawn. “I’m just not used to the whole commuting thing.”

“You’re sleeping all right?”

“I’m sleeping fine,” Marty said, a slight edge to his voice. Doc sensed that he didn’t want to discuss the matter anymore and, with something much more pressing on his mind, the inventor dropped it.

“Clara just felt the baby move.”

“Really?” He sounded surprised. “It’s big enough to kick already?”

“Not in the manner you’re thinking of, but it is developed enough so that she can feel it inside her now.”

Marty got the oddest look on his face, perhaps in trying to imagine the very feeling. Doc. “Heavy,” he commented. “Did you feel it move?”

“No -- it’s not quite that large yet.” He paused as Marty started to move in the direction of the kitchen. “I feel rather ridiculous referring to the baby as ‘it.’ It’s really too bad one can’t discover the gender of the child while it’s still in utero right now.”

“Ten to one that Clara would want to wait, anyway,” Marty said. He yawned again, trying to conceal it behind his hand as he pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen. Doc lingered where he was a moment, the exhilaration of the prior minutes once more nudged aside by concern for Marty. Something was wrong, he was certain. But until his friend could or would talk, he was able to do nothing more than speculate.

Thursday, August 12, 1886
12:39 A.M.

It had been more than a week since Marty had had a full, decent night’s sleep. This evening was no exception. He had gone to bed at the ungodly early hour of 8:30 P.M. -- as soon as he could escape without arousing too much suspicion from Doc or Clara, who seemed to sense something was amiss. (Accidentally crashing on the couch for a pre-dinner nap probably had something to do with that. He usually was able to make it to his room for that sort of thing.) He had fallen asleep quickly, but around a quarter to one, according to the small, wind up alarm clock on his bedside table, the creaks, squeaks, and muffled groans disturbed him.

Marty had wondered, more than once, why he couldn’t simply sleep through the noises. He was sure that he was tired enough that it shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe, Marty worried, he was listening for the sounds, waiting for them on some subconscious level....

He snorted as he sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side. Get a grip, McFly, he told himself firmly. You’re getting too paranoid.

Marty grabbed his pillow from the head of the bed and left the room as quickly as he could. He yawned as he shuffled down the narrow hallway, cut across the foyer, and slipped through the closed french doors and into the living room. This was getting ridiculous, he thought as he dumped the pillow on the Victorian couch and sat down next to it. He knew that Doc and Clara were a kind of intense, passionate couple, but sheesh!

Marty heaved a sigh as he curled up on his side on the couch. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this and remain awake and (somewhat) alert during the day. Nor was he sure how he could keep hiding this from Doc. He’d been lucky so far that neither the inventor nor his wife had ever come downstairs in the middle of the night and caught him out of his room. Of course, if that happened, it wasn’t as if Marty would be in any sort of trouble. There were tons of excuses one could use for being up and about in the middle of the night. Sleepwalking. Going out to use the outhouse. Insomnia....

Marty smiled humorlessly, almost wishing he had insomnia. In some ways, that would be almost easier to deal with that this bizarre problem. His eyes slid closed as he shifted, trying to get comfortable on the too-narrow, too-hard couch. By the time he would return to his real bed, he’d be sore all over from the couple hours of fitful snatches of sleep on there.

The ticking and tocking of the clock was a soothing sort of sound when compared with the other noises Marty had to endured. It reminded him of Doc’s lab to a degree -- the one in 1985. The inventor had already acquired a small collection of timepieces since his arrival in 1885, and had sprinkled them throughout the home. The young man wasn’t sure if there was a room in the home without a clock, for the most part. Anything extra would be put in the lab when Doc was finished with the modifications to the building that he was making.

Strangely, amazingly, it had been almost a year since he had arrived in the past. Marty was aware of the date coming up, when he had the energy and lack of distraction to really ponder it. He wasn’t looking forward to it very much, though he thought that once it passed, things could get easier in some regard. It hadn’t been fun living through anniversaries, holidays, and such for the first time. In early June, when he had turned eighteen, he had wanted to spend the whole day in bed hiding from the world. Back home, the age of eighteen meant freedom. It meant that one had all the adult rights (short of legally drinking alcohol). It meant he could vote, and was required to register for any potential military drafts.

But turning eighteen meant very little here.

In another couple weeks, however, that wouldn’t matter anymore. One year. His mind boggled a little when he thought of it, and of all the changes his life and his friend’s life had endured over that span of days, weeks, and months....

Marty’s breathing slowed, growing deeper as his mind drifted along comforting corridors, recalling home. As bittersweet as it made him feel, it almost helped him fall asleep better. Of course, these days he didn’t need much help with that. Any time he sat down or lay down on something remotely comfortable, he’d find himself dozing within minutes.

Ten minutes after he lay down on the couch, he was out.

When the clock on the mantle chimed once a few minutes later, at the top of the hour, Marty habitually stirred enough to raise his head, fix a brief, bleary-eyed look at the timepiece, then drop his head back on the pillow after he had fuzzily noted the time. That’s part what made this so lousy; every hour, he would wake from the clock’s chimes. But it also ensured that he would make it back to his room before Doc or Clara would get up early in the day. It was an infallible system, if not inconvenient.

Marty shifted onto his other side in hopes of getting more comfortable, then let out a deep sigh. One of these days, he reflected vaguely, he was going to have to kill Doc. His only consolation, as he slipped towards sleep again, was that when the scientist undid the accident with the new time machine, he would have no memory of these events.

* * *

As usual, Doc rose early at six A.M. and turned off his alarm clock before it could disturb his wife. It wasn’t very convenient to live five miles from town, particularly in a period before automobiles would make the distance all but unnoticeable, but the inventor knew that he really couldn’t have done it any other way. Soon, very soon, he would need all the privacy he could get to create a new time machine.

Unbeknownst to Marty, or even Clara, he was already far along on the plans for the new machine, and had been negotiating recently with a company that would give him a very appropriate vehicle to modify into a time machine. Doc was optimistic that he would have it in his possession before the birth of his and Clara’s child around late December. Once that was so, he could start on the actual physical labors that would turn the dream into a reality.

Doc glanced to his right at the sleeping form of his wife, then slipped out of bed and stepped over to one of the windows. He pulled back a corner of the curtain, peeking outside and seeing another clear sky, streaked with the pastel light of dawn. At least the weather had been pleasant, if not a little hot, these last few weeks. He wasn’t looking forward to riding into town when the rainy season started, followed by the cold, frigid temperatures.

The scientist turned away from the window and quietly dressed in the room, locating his clothes and such mostly by habit. After he had dressed, he moved down the upstairs hall to the room that he had set aside for an eventual bathroom. The room was filled with a few odd assortments, including a mirror and washstand. In the light of an oil lamp, Doc carefully shaved and washed up. Then he headed downstairs to put the coffee on and start breakfast.

After he had reached the bottom of the stairs, the inventor started to turn habitually to the right, on his way to the kitchen. Instead, he paused and looked to his left, feeling that something wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t sure why the feeling nagged. The foyer was as dark as the rest of the house at this hour. He could make out the coat rack next to the door, and the the skinny, narrow windows framing the doorway, as well as the rug over the polished hardwood floor. The french doors that separated the parlor from the entryway were ajar, and-- Wait. Doc looked harder, his eyes once more drawn to the ajar interior doors. He had been the last one to bed the night before, and he remembered quite well that they had been closed at that time.

Doc stepped over to the doorway and leaned inside the parlor to grab the handle of the wayward door. As his hand touched the knob, he paused again, feeling once more that something wasn’t quite right. He blinked and looked around the room slowly, but the shadows in the room made it hard to see much.

Doc frowned and let go of the doorknob, stepping into the room for a closer look. He reached into his pocket, fumbling around for the box of matches he habitually carried. A moment later he had successfully lit one of the oil lamps that Clara’s parents had bought them. As he closed the glass lid and turned up the flame, the light fleshed out the room and provided him a much clearer look at his surroundings. He turned, and that’s when he saw the form on the couch.

Doc’s frown deepened into one of concern and confusion. Marty was once more stretched out on his stomach on the uncomfortably narrow couch. His arms were flung up, over his head, wrapped around a pillow from his bed, into which half his face was buried. He was asleep -- a deep sleep if the sound of his breathing was any indication. But why on earth was he out here and not in his bed? Doc knew for a fact that he had retired for the night in his room, before he and Clara had turned in.

Doc set the lamp back down and stepped over to his friend’s side. “Marty?” he called softly, shaking him by the shoulder.

Marty did little more than halfheartedly pull away, trying to burrow deeper into the couch. Doc shook him harder, more forcefully. “Marty?”

That, at least, generated more of a reaction. The young man groaned, wincing as Doc continued to shake him. His eyes cracked open after a moment, and he gave the scientist a rather dirty look. Doc spoke before he had the chance.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

Marty blinked once, slowly, then focused his eyes beyond the inventor’s face at the surroundings. “Huh?”

“Why are you sleeping in the parlor? Is something wrong with your room?”

An odd look flickered across Marty’s face. “Somethin’ like that,” Doc heard him mutter softly. He sat up and leaned back in the couch, creases from the pillow marking one side of his cheek.

“What’s wrong with it?” Doc asked, when Marty didn’t elaborate on his own.

The young man sighed. “Forget it, Doc,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I would say it is, if it’s chased you out here.”

Marty shifted a little, uncomfortable. “I hear noises in there,” he said, “and it...never mind, forget it.”

The inventor planned to do no such thing. “Noises? What kinds of noises? Scratching in the walls? Squeaking?”

“There’s some squeaking,” Marty muttered. In a louder voice, he added, “Look, Doc, can we just not talk about this right now?”

Doc wasn’t about to let the matter go. He shook his head, walking over to the cold fireplace as he thought. “It could be vermin,” he said. “That’s possible in a building like this, particularly since it was vacant for a few weeks after the owner passed away. If we’re plagued by mice, I need to know. Show me where you’re hearing the noises.”

Marty threw him a look that the scientist couldn’t quite read, then sighed again. He slowly hauled himself to his feet and shuffled out of the room, down the hall to his bedroom, dragging his pillow with him. Doc followed him, bringing the lit oil lamp out of the parlor with him for added illumination. When they reached his room, Marty gestured broadly to the ceiling above. “It’s sort of in that direction,” he said, rather vaguely.

Doc slowly circumnavigated the room, holding the light up high as he visually scanned the ceiling and upper walls for any traces of holes or chewed wood that would indicate a pest problem. He thought it was rather odd that it wouldn’t be close to the floor, but the inventor knew that mice could easily climb between the walls and burrow out homes.

“When do you most often hear the noises?” he asked, glancing away for a moment at Marty. His friend had already laid down on top of the mussed bedding, clearly weary enough to return to sleep, never mind that Doc would have to rouse him again very soon. Marty grunted softly at the question, watching the inventor through half closed eyes.

“Anywhere from midnight to three A.M. You can’t ignore it.” There was a strange note in his voice, something that once more puzzled the inventor. It wasn’t sarcasm, not quite, but it was a little puckish.

Doc continued to puzzle that out as he finished a visual examination of the ceiling and walls. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Interesting. He walked over to the window and stood next to that for a moment, noting that it was closed. That was strange, too. Since air conditioning was nonexistent in this time period, the windows in all the rooms had been opened almost continuously since they had arrived in the house. Part of this was to air out the building, particularly since many of the rooms had been freshly painted or papered, but the biggest reason was the dry summer heat. Daytime temperatures hadn’t dipped below eighty degrees in almost a month, making life a little more uncomfortable than normal.

“Is your window closed when you hear the sounds?” Doc asked. He waited a moment, but no response was forthcoming. A glance to his right, and he saw that Marty’s eyes had closed completely. By the pitch of his breathing, Doc surmised he was asleep once more.

The inventor set the lamp down on the bedside table and undid the latch of the window. Once it was freed, he slid it upward. Cool, early morning air slipped into the hot and stuffy room. The inventor leaned out a moment, straining his ears, but all he could catch was the incessant twitter of birds nearby. He sighed, then leaned back into the room and closed the window.

A squeaking, he said, Doc thought, taking a few steps away from the window and sitting down on the foot of the bed, near Marty’s feet. And it would be upward, not near the floor. Something loud enough to disturb him, and prevent him from staying in the room all night.

It didn’t add up. Doc crossed his arms and leaned against the footboard of the bed, feeling rather stumped -- and then, from above, he heard a sharp, distinctive creak and squeak. He snapped his head up, looking towards the ceiling, then looked to his right at Marty. His friend didn’t stir. The sounds continued for a moment, then Doc heard a new sort of noise that he could recognize. Footsteps from above. Clara was up. And the sounds that preceded it, they were simply her shifting in bed and--

The pieces abruptly fell into place and he felt his face suddenly drain of color. Great Scott! He had all but forgotten that Marty’s bedroom was under his! And with the changes that were happening in her body from the pregnancy, Clara had been considerably more affectionate and amorous recently and....

Doc’s mouth dropped open in horror. He buried his face in his hands, knowing that he shouldn’t be embarrassed by what Marty had been hearing -- it was, after all, a matter of nature and biology -- but unable to feel anything else in that first moment. Poor Marty -- and his friend had been too uncomfortable to clue the inventor in himself! After a moment involving a couple deep breaths, and fighting the wholly illogical sensation of wanting to simply laugh, long and hard, Doc raised his head and looked over at his friend.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered. “We’ll have to do something about this situation, won’t we?”

Marty’s only response was a soft snore.

With the mystery solved, Doc stood and stepped towards the open door, walking across the hall to where his study was supposed to go in the room at the front of the house. He eyeballed the boxes in the early light of dawn, still mostly packed up, and the desk and sofa that were also haphazardly placed in the space. Doc turned around to look at the dark doorway of Marty’s current room, then turned back to regard the mess in the study. He sighed, but the decision had already been made on some level.

A footstep at his back broke his contemplation a moment later. Turning, he saw Clara moving towards him down the hallway, still clad in her nightclothes. “What are you doing, Emmett?” she asked softly, greeting him with a good morning kiss.

Doc returned it rather absently. “I’m thinking about switching the study with Marty’s room,” he confessed. “Tonight.”

Clara blinked, her confusion clear even in the dim shadows of the hallway. “Why?” she asked.

Doc stepped over to Marty’s current room and leaned inside to grab the doorknob and close the door, not wanting to wake his friend all over again. In the few seconds it took to execute the action, Doc’s mind quickly struggled to find an acceptable excuse to feed to his wife for the reason behind the room switch. The truth, certainly, could not be told; Clara would have died a thousand times over in embarrassment over it, and Doc suspected she would never be able to face Marty again.

“Marty’s room only has one window,” Doc said after he had closed the door. “The study has two, and it should be easier to keep cool in these months. Besides, I don’t need the extra room in there. I have the entire barn for that.”

Clara narrowed her eyes a moment, looking a bit skeptical at her husband’s words, but didn’t press the issue. “Well, that sounds reasonable, I suppose. Did you want to wake him?”

Doc made the decision in a moment. “I thought I’d give him the day off,” he said. “He seems a little worn out from this week. Let him sleep in as late as he wants this morning.” Turning away, under his breath, he added, “I think that’s the least we can do for him.”

* * *

When awareness crept back in, the first thing that really concerned Marty was how hot he was. The air around him was thick, stuffy, and dry. He was lying down on something soft. A bed. His bed, from the feel of it. But it wasn’t the middle of the night. Marty didn’t have to crack his eyes open to be sure of that. Like every day since the move, he must’ve come into his room after getting back from town and passed out on the bed for a couple hours’ rest. Those interrupted nights were slowly killing him.

The stifling heat, and the thought that he could miss dinner -- raising more suspicion and concern from Doc and Clara -- was enough to prompt him to open his eyes.

What he saw when sight was restored was nothing more than the smoothly painted wall a few inches from his nose. He rolled over, his clothes sticking to him like a second skin, only then aware that he was covered in a thin layer of preparation. Marty sat up, squinting heavily from the sunlight slanting in through the window. It wasn’t even close to sunset, he saw immediately. Instead, it looked like it was the middle of the day.

What the hell? he wondered, thoroughly confused. He rubbed his forehead, still quite groggy, and attempted to trace his thoughts back. He remembered going to bed the night before. And then waking up in the middle of the night to those noises once again. He’d gone into the living room to nap on the couch until it was safe to return. But.... Marty frowned as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, another memory surfacing. He hadn’t returned to the bedroom alone. Doc had found him out there. And then.... Hadn’t he blurted something out about the noises -- or that noises existed? Doc had wanted to know where it was coming from, and they had come back into the room and...then what?

Before he could attempt to reach a conclusion on that matter, the door to the room creaked open. Marty turned his head in the direction of the noise, just in time to see Clara peek cautiously around the doorjamb. “Good afternoon,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”

Marty frowned, confused. “Afternoon?” he croaked.

Clara nodded as she opened the door all the way. “Yes, it’s just after one o’ clock. You’ve slept away the morning. Are you all right?”

“I’m...I’m fine. Where’s Doc? Why didn’t he wake me up earlier?”

“He told me he thought you deserved a day off, and that I was to let you sleep as long as you wished. He didn’t explain why beyond that.”

Marty’s confusion increased. Clara didn’t seem to notice. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I set aside some food for you from breakfast.”

The mention of food made Marty realize that he was indeed starving. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks. So Doc’s in town? At the stable?”

Clara nodded again, stepping into the room. “Yes, but he told me he hoped to come home a little earlier than usual. He wants to move your bedroom.” She stopped at the window -- which was closed; that explained why it was so hot and stuffy -- and flipped the latch, pushing it up. A hot breeze billowed into the room, the sensation welcome on Marty’s damp skin.

Marty wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. “He wants to what?”

“Emmett wants to give you the room across the hall. He said it should be a great deal cooler than this one, as it has two windows and is on the northeast side of the house. It’s also a bit larger for you than this one. I take it this is a surprise for you?”

“Well, yeah,” Marty said, too amazed to lie. Why would Doc want to switch his room? Marty didn’t really care all that much, though he guessed that if he was on the other side of the hallway, it would stop those nocturnal noises from bothering him--

He froze a moment, perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes widening. He must’ve mentioned the noises to Doc! There could be no other explanation! And, now that he thought about it, he did vaguely recall Doc asking him about sounds, wanting specifics, and looking around his room.

Marty groaned aloud, burying his face in his hands. Clara turned to him in alarm.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Fine,” Marty mumbled through his hands. “Just dandy.” He wondered if Doc had told Clara about the true reasons behind proposing the room move. Somehow, he doubted it. The former teacher wouldn’t be able to chat so innocently with him otherwise.

Clara didn’t seem to believe him. “You must be baking in here,” she said. “I don’t know why your window was closed this whole time, you poor dear. Why don’t you sit on the front porch and I’ll bring your food out to you. There’s a breeze out there, and it’s shaded.”

Marty allowed himself to be led outside and seated on the porch swing that Doc had installed a few days after they had moved in. True to her word, Clara brought his held over breakfast to him on a tray, then left him alone to his meal as she worked on cleaning the kitchen.

Marty was still out there, slumped on the swing and nudging it back and forth a little with his toes, when he saw a smattering of dust on the horizon. He sat up and leaned forward, squinting. After a moment he saw a figure approaching on horseback, the sound of the hoofbeats scarcely audible.

“Doc,” Marty murmured aloud. He couldn’t imagine anyone else riding up at this time of the day, unannounced.

Sure enough, it was the inventor. He led his mount -- Archimedes -- at a walk up the long, dirt driveway that led to the farmhouse. Marty stood up and waved when the scientist was close enough. Doc gave his hat a tilt in return. The young man headed down the porch steps to meet him.

“Good afternoon,” Doc said, stopping the horse. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah,” Marty said as Doc dismounted. “Are you taking the afternoon off or something?”

“Yep. It was pretty slow, and there’s work to be done here.”

“Yeah,” Marty said, falling into step with his mentor as Doc walked towards the pasture. “Clara said that you’re moving my room. Is there any reason for that?”

Doc gave him a sidelong glance from under the brim of his hat. “I don’t need all that space for a study,” he said. “I’ve got the lab out in the barn for my projects. I think you’ll put the extra space to better use.”

“Uh huh. So it has nothing to do with anything I might’ve said to you last night?”

“About what?”

Marty ran a hand through his hair nervously. “About...sounds...y’know?”

Was it his imagination, or was there a gleam of amusement in his friend’s eyes? “Oh, yes, sounds. Well, I admit that did concern me. Are they not troublesome to you?”

Marty recalled the creepy sensation he felt every time he woke to those noises and repressed a shudder. “Oh, uh, yeah, they are kinda...yeah, I don’t mind moving. Does Clara know about what I’ve heard?”

Doc stopped in the shade cast by the barn. Archimedes snorted impatiently, eager to reach his trough of water in the pasture nearby. “No, I felt that it wasn’t important for her to know. Do you disagree?”

Marty imagined Clara’s reaction to the situation and shook his head adamantly. “No, it’s cool if this stays between us.” He wasted no time in changing the subject. “You sure you wanna give up that room for your study? I know you liked the built-in bookshelves in there.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a use for them,” Doc said. “I can always build new shelves into the other room. Let me get Archimedes in the pasture, and then we can start moving the furniture around. You should be able to sleep in your new room tonight.”

Marty nodded, remaining in the shade while Doc resumed his stroll to the pasture with the horse. He couldn’t figure out if he was embarrassed or relieved that the inventor knew about his problem. Considering the solution, relief was probably the best thing. The nursery, he knew, was above the study, and he seriously doubted that the couple would do anything in there that would disturb him.

Besides, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a larger room, either. Not at all.

Thursday, September 2, 1886
4:30 A.M.

In the wee hours of the day, before the sun had even risen, Marty woke rather abruptly. He lay in bed, on his back for once, and looked up at the dark ceiling. Starlight filtered through the curtains, giving the room an unearthly glow. He blinked a couple times, straining his ears for any sort of sound that might’ve stirred him from his slumber. Nothing. The silence around him was thick and unbroken. After a moment he sat up, reaching for the wind up alarm clock on his bedside table.

“Four-thirty,” he murmured aloud. “I can still get an hour or so.” He set the clock back down and stretched out on his side, facing the center of the room. But sleep didn’t come. His eyes remained opened. There was something nagging at him, bothering him. Something about the date....

What day is it, anyway? Marty wondered.

The days had started to flow together, one slopping to the next with very little distinction. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. The weekends offered the only breaks in routine...and today, Marty remembered, was not a weekend. It was a weekday -- Thursday. Early September, wasn’t it? Yeah. In fact, it was--

September second. Oh my God!

Marty sat up once more as the date sunk in. He had been here for a year, now. A full year. The realization made him feel a sick sensation in his gut. One year ago today, he had arrived, bursting into 1885 to save Doc and take him back home...and, instead, had the unfortunate luck to run afoul of a bunch of Indians and rip a hole in the gas tank trying to get away. (And they weren’t even after me, he recalled bitterly.) If he knew now what he knew then, he might’ve followed Doc’s instructions from the past, going back to 1985 instead of embarking on the trip he had.

You don’t really mean that, though, an inner voice chided. And Marty supposed he did not. If he hadn’t gone back to warn him, Doc would’ve died about a year ago instead, from a bullet in the back. Knowing what he did, there was no possible way Marty could have tripped along to the future to live out the rest of his life. Not if something could’ve been done to save his best friend.

Marty threw back the sheets with a sigh, too awake now to even dream of going back to bed -- especially considering he’d have to get up soon, anyway. In spite of the windows gaping open several inches, the room felt too stuffy to him. The warm, summer weather was hanging on. Now that he wasn’t in a place that had holes in the ceiling and walls, Marty was almost looking forward to the cooler months. It seemed easier to get warm in the past than it was to stay cool.

Marty padded across the floor -- even the boards were too warm against his bare feet -- and opened his bedroom door. He quietly went down the hall, turned right, passed the stairs to the second floor, then unlocked the front door. Clara was mystified by that, why her husband had wanted to install locks on the front and back doors. A locked door on a home was a rare occurrence here, unless one was going to be gone for a while. Marty, however, couldn’t imagine not locking a door at night. Even his Hill Valley had some crime.

He stepped onto the front porch, the cool, morning air billowing out to meet him. A sigh escaped his lips as he eased the door closed, then walked across the porch to the swing. He sat down, propping his feet up on the railing, and stared out at the landscape before the home. The moon hung low in the sky, bright enough to cast shadows, and there was a glow to the eastern sky that told Marty the sun would soon rise.

The memories were hardest now, in these quiet times. A year! A year since he had seen Jennifer, his family. A year since he was living through his senior year at Hill Valley High School. A year since he got to play electric guitar with his band.

Marty sighed again, folding his arms across his chest, watching the eastern sky lighten by degrees. The sun had peeked over the horizon, and the moon had completely set, when he heard the front door open and close. Marty didn’t look in the direction of the footsteps until they stopped, and Doc’s voice asked, “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

Marty didn’t answer him at first, the twitter of newly awake birds having lulled him into a semi-hypnotic trance. “It’s been a year, now,” he said softly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doc lean against the porch railing, his own arms crossing before his chest. “A year?”

“A year since I got here. It’s September second today.”

There was a pause. “So it is. A lot has happened during that time, hasn’t it?”

“Uh huh. Most of it I could’ve lived without living through, though.”

“Had the accident with the DeLorean gone differently, you might have gotten that wish,” Doc said quietly. “You know you were seriously hurt.”

Something in his voice made Marty turn his head and look at him. Doc didn’t bring that up too often, though Marty knew that he had thrown a good scare into his friend with the injury he sustained. In his mind, though, that was already ancient history. There were no lingering marks or problems that he had from that anymore; no more headaches. God bless the rebounding of youth.

“Yeah, I know, you’ve told me before. I wish things would’ve gone differently -- not, you know, worse for me, but that the train wouldn’t have derailed. Ever wonder about that, Doc?”

“From time to time,” the inventor admitted. “But it didn’t happen that way, Marty. To imagine otherwise is wishful thinking.”

Marty opened his mouth to remind the inventor about his vow that he would someday undo the incident. Doc continued to speak, his own gaze now trained on the horizon. “I wonder what would’ve happened to Clara if we had continued on our way. She was in pursuit of the locomotive, you know.”

Marty shrugged, this nugget of information not important in his eyes. “She probably would’ve either been left behind, or you would’ve brought her back with us. You wouldn’t have left her here if she saw the time machine,” he added.

“Maybe,” Doc said. “I suppose we’ll never know.” He blinked, his gaze sharpening as they returned to the present. “You’re going to want to get dressed soon.”

“I know,” Marty said, but he made no move to leave the seat. “How many more years am I going to have to ‘celebrate’ being here, Doc?”

“Not too terribly many, I hope. I’ll resume the focus on a new time machine shortly, once the modifications are done on the barn. That’s the most important priority now, while the weather is still holding.”

Marty didn’t say anything. What could one say to that, anyway, beyond, “Yeah,” or “Okay”? Doc left his post against the railing and headed back to the front door. “The coffee should be ready in a few minutes,” he warned, then returned back inside.

Marty sighed, tilting his head back against the back of the seat. He was almost tempted to remain sitting where he was for the entire day -- a silent protest against the date. But he knew enough, now, to realize that would be a rather pointless use of his time. He had to keep busy -- it was the only thing that made him forget for a while. And forgetting was the only way he could continue to cope.

After a minute, he got up and followed Doc back into the house. He wasn’t going to show up in town in his pajamas, that was for sure.

[Oooo, look, a cut scene link!]

Saturday, December 18, 1886
8:12 A.M.

The rest of the fall passed by quickly. Marty’s days fell into a predictable pattern of sorts. During the weekdays he traveled into town with Doc to help out at the workshop, and on the weekends he aided the inventor with the carpentry work he was putting in on the barn. Soon, he hinted, he would begin to purchase things to create a new time machine, but Marty wasn’t sure if he was entirely serious. Doc had stopped letting him look at the plans and notes for the new machine, and grew cryptic when Marty brought it up. “All in good time,” he would say in response to any questions.

“Y’know, Doc, you’d give me a lot more confidence if you just told me what was going on,” Marty grumbled one day, feeling particularly punchy.

“When there is something to share, I will,” Doc said. “I’d rather wait until I know if my plan has potential before I tell you.”

Just as Marty had speculated during the summer, he was extremely happy to live in a real house instead of the poorly insulated livery stable when the weather turned. The transition was abrupt; in late October the summer was still hanging on, with unseasonably warm days, but four days before November a cold, driving rain started. By Thanksgiving, it had snowed -- just a dusting, but nevertheless it was a sign that winter was about to settle in. The following week a foot of the white stuff fell, making the trip to town difficult; it took three hours to trek out there one way. There were no plows to clear the roads, and the horses were skittish when it came to stepping onto a ground that looked rather unstable from their perspective.

Doc’s behavior changed as Christmas grew closer. He seemed distant, increasingly preoccupied. Marty wrote it off immediately as one of those things tying into impending fatherhood. After the first big snowfall, the inventor told Marty to remain home -- Clara’s due date was drawing close, and he didn’t want her alone should she chance to deliver early. Although the inventor had coached him in basic first aid -- just in case -- Marty was almost more nervous than Doc at the idea of Clara going into labor if her husband wasn’t around. He started having nightmares about ridiculously complicated scenarios that always involved him and Clara stuck somewhere and the baby about to come. Once it was in an elevator. Another time in an outhouse. And once it was simply stuck in the cellar of the house.

That last scenario showed up in his dreams the day after Doc had casually mentioned the space was now off limits until further notice, a matter that didn’t faze Marty too much as he wasn’t too excited about being in the underground space when he had been. It made him feel vaguely claustrophobic, even though the space was quite large, with a high ceiling. The lack of windows probably contributed to that particular sensation.

Clara, for her part, seemed unusually calm to Marty. The bigger she grew -- and Marty’s mind boggled a little at the transformation her figure had undergone; he’d never lived with a pregnant woman before -- the more serene she seemed. The teen had heard the term “glowing with motherhood” before, but never really understood it until the last several months. Marty also became privy to a sort of secret life the former teacher kept. The moment Doc would leave for work, she would immediately disregard any ideas of “taking it easy,” insisting on keeping the house in the same condition it had been after they had moved in. Marty knew very well that Doc was being overly paranoid with his list of dos and don’ts that Clara should be adhering to in these last few weeks, so he pretended to look the other way.

One week before Christmas, Marty woke up with a sore throat. He lay in bed for a moment after awakening, swallowing a few times, wondering if it was just a side effect of dry air. After several minutes, he came to the conclusion it was not. After more than a year of avoiding even the common cold in this time, he suspected that he was coming down with his first one. It didn’t seem like a big deal in the least until he casually mentioned it at breakfast with Doc and Clara.

“Your throat hurts?” Doc said, dropping his piece of toast at the news. “How, precisely?”

Marty shrugged, picking through the eggs that Clara had scrambled. “I dunno. It just hurts. It’s probably just a cold, Doc, no big deal.”

Clara, who was shuffling a plate of bacon over from the stove, set the food on the table, then slipped her hand on Marty’s forehead. He rolled his eyes in her direction, raising an eyebrow in question. “Can I help you?”

“He is a bit warm, Emmett,” she said, letting her hand drop.

“I want you to go back to bed,” Doc said. Marty thought it was a joke until he noticed his friend wasn’t cracking a smile.

“What, seriously? Look, I’m fine! I feel fine, more or less!”

Doc shook his head firmly. “I don’t think you realize how different medicine is now, Marty,” he said. “Perhaps a sore throat is nothing more than a cold, a minor inconvenience, back home, but here it could be the early signal to a number of things. Even if it is just a prelude to a cold, it could easily develop into something worse -- bronchitis or, God forbid, pneumonia -- without proper rest and care. There are no over the counter remedies to prevent those complications, either, and no antibiotics should complications actually develop. This is very serious.”

Marty looked at Clara as she carefully eased herself down into the chair at her husband’s side. Her belly was so big from the baby now that sitting down and getting up again seemed to be a job in and of itself. “Clara, tell him he’s being paranoid.”

But the expectant mother shook her head as she placed two biscuits on her plate. “I’m afraid he is not. You should remain in bed until your symptoms have passed.”

“Just as you should remain in bed until you have the baby?” Marty asked dryly.

As expected, Doc turned his head now towards his wife. “Clara, why are you still cooking? Marty is right, you need to be off your feet. I’m perfectly capable of preparing meals for us until after the baby’s birth.”

Clara gave Marty a faintly dirty look before she answered. “Oh, really, Emmett. It is bad enough I haven’t set foot out of this house for more than a month, nor seen anyone aside from you or Marty. Don’t take away the simple freedom I have in moving within the rooms!”

Doc frowned. “You’re almost full term, now. The baby could conceivably come any time. Believe me when I say that the more time you spend off your feet, the better off you’ll be.”

Marty, who was still irritated by what felt to him as a united front on forcing him to stay in bed for a simple cold, corrected his friend. “Actually, Doc, I remember hearing that it’s okay for pregnant women to do the stuff they normally do until they deliver. Unless there’s some big risk or they have twins or something.”

“There is a risk,” Doc said flatly. “Clara’s an advanced age.”

“I beg your pardon?” Clara’s voice was chilly as she addressed her husband.

“Well, you are,” Doc said, unaware of the danger zone that he was wandering into. “Many women have their first children far before the age of thirty-one in the current timeframe.”

He set down his fork and picked up his cup of coffee, gulping down the rest of the liquid, oblivious to the stony silence from the others at the table. “Both of you need to go back to bed,” he said after he’d finished his drink, setting it down in the saucer with a clatter. “I’ve got some work to take care of out in the lab.”

Clara stood as fast as she could manage. “Of course, if you feel that way,” she said crisply. “Come, Marty. Emmett, I trust you can manage the dishes and take care of the dinner and supper preparations today?”

Doc blinked, looking a little taken aback. “Yes, quite so.”

Marty finished a final bite of food, then pushed his own chair back. “I guess you know where to find me,” he said to his friend, following Clara out of the room.

The former teacher held her tongue only until the door had swung shut behind them. “If Emmett thinks he knows best, then we need to follow his orders,” she half muttered. “No matter what. Perhaps that will show him....”

Marty didn’t know quite what to say to that. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally settled on, a little bewildered.

Clara headed slowly up the stairs, still obviously seething. Marty went down the hall to his bedroom, not entirely sure what he was going to do with forced bed rest. In a time before television, electricity, video games, recorded music, and the like, being made to stay in bed or in his room all day was not the most enticing prospect. It seemed like a key spell for boredom, actually.

For a while, though, it wasn’t too bad. He settled on his bed with his notebook and guitar, trying to craft a song and run through some old ones. The environment wasn’t the most inspiring, though, and after an hour, he set his instrument aside. He kept the paper and pencil in hand, however, and sat back against the bed’s headboard, composing a letter to Jennifer. It was a strange habit he had recently picked up -- writing letters to his girlfriend that he knew could never be mailed or given to her. In a weird way, though, it made him feel better. As if he really was communicating with her.

Doc looked in on him around noon, bringing with him a tray. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“No worse,” Marty said tersely. “I’m fine, Doc. This is just a cold.”

“If it is, then you’ll be up in no time,” the inventor said. He set the tray down on the foot of the bed, looking a little frazzled, then ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll collect that later. Be sure to drink all that tea -- there are some herbal properties to it which will help your immune system. I’ve got to see to Clara now.”

Marty raised an eyebrow. “You’re really forcing her into bed for the next few weeks? Do you want to encourage her to kill you or something?”

“She’ll get over it,” Doc said. “I’d rather have her irritated and healthy than wear herself ragged trying to run this household and put her life or the baby’s at risk.” He turned and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Marty’s appetite wasn’t affected by his budding cold in the least. He ate the soup and couple slices of bread Doc had set out on the tray, then had the tea. The brew was rather bitter, so he drank it down as fast as he could, swallowing it in large gulps.

After lunch, he wound up slipping into a three hour nap. When he woke, the tray was gone from his room, and the spare quilt at the foot of the bed had been tucked around him. Marty also felt a little worse; his throat still burned, and now his nose was starting to feel rather stuffy. He sighed, recalling Doc’s comment about a lack of over the counter remedies with symptoms, then slipped out of bed. All that soup and tea was hitting him now, and if Doc was going to try and stop him from using the outhouse, he was going to have a fight on his hands.

Marty moved rather slowly as he left the room and headed down the hall, feeling considerably groggy from his long, unanticipated nap. He heard some noises coming from the direction of the kitchen and, suspecting it may be Doc, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, prepared for a confrontation. He pushed open the door -- and stopped, surprised to see Clara at the stove, cooking. The mother-to-be turned her head sharply as the door opened, the line of her jaw taught. When she saw Marty, however, she managed a small smile.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you feeling better?”

Marty had to clear his throat before he could speak. Nevertheless, his voice came out a bit hoarse. “It’s just a cold,” he said. “Where’s Doc? Does he know you’re out of bed?”

Clara turned back to the stove. “He’s out in the barn,” she said. “And no, he does not know I’m up. I feel perfectly fine, and perfectly capable of fixing supper. Emmett is overreacting.”

“You got that right,” Marty muttered. Clara glanced at him as he made his way to the back door.

“Well, he is right that you should be in bed,” she said. “You look pale. I’ll bring you a tray, if you’re up to eating.”

Marty smiled thinly. “I’m a little sick of lying in bed,” he said. “And there’s something I gotta take care of right now that no one else can do.”

Clara looked at him curiously, but did not ask. Marty slipped on his boots and removed his overcoat from a rack near the back door, then headed outside for the privy. After he had finished his business in there, he headed off towards the barn, rather than the house, curious as to what Doc was up to now.

The inventor had gotten awfully secretive recently about something in there, working on what he said were Christmas gifts. Marty couldn’t even begin to think what might be in the barn.

Before knocking on the regular-sized door, near the two larger ones, Marty circled around the building, trying to peer into the windows. Unfortunately, Doc had drawn the curtains over them. The doors were all locked from the inside; he wouldn’t be able to sneak inside and see what his friend was up to. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Marty finally rapped on the door. A moment passed, then he heard footsteps heading his way. Doc yanked open the door, peering around the side of it with wide eyes and a pair of goggles resting up on his forehead.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded. His eyes widened and he clutched the door. “Great Scott, is Clara in labor?!”

Marty shook his head. “She’s fine,” he said. “And I already told you, I’m fine. I don’t need to be stuck in bed. There’s nothing to do, Doc.”

“Of course there is,” Doc said, not moving from his spot, blocking the way in. “You could read. Work on your music. Rest.”

“Yeah, that stuff is totally thrilling all day. C’mon, there’s got to be something I can do to help you out here.”

“No,” Doc said flatly. “Go back to bed.”

“Doc! Come on! I’m not gonna keel over!”

“Even if you were in a state of perfect health, I don’t want you out here. I’m working on something. You’ll see it in a week.”

Marty opened his mouth to offer another argument, but Doc shut the door in his face before he uttered one syllable. There was the sound of a few locks being slid into place, then footsteps headed away from the door. The teen remained rooted where he was a moment, then let out a groan of frustration and turned around, striding back to the house. Clara jumped as he came in through the backdoor, nearly dropping the glass that was in her hand.

“Everything all right?” she asked as Marty slipped by her.

“Perfect,” Marty growled. “Just great.”

One thing was for sure, he thought as he returned to his room. Under no circumstances, unless he was on the verge of death, was he ever going to mention feeling remotely sick to Doc or Clara. If they were this unbearable with a nothing cold, he hated to imagine how freaked they would get if it was anything worse.

He spent some of his frustration banging around on his guitar, but the lack of an amp didn’t make it nearly as satisfying as he recalled it being back at home. Marty then settled back in the bed, watching the room dim as the sun set outside, and tried to think about what the hell Doc was working on. The only thing he could figure was that it was another time machine -- but he couldn’t understand why his friend wanted to conceal that project from him if that was so. It didn’t make any sense, really.

An hour or so after he returned to his room, he heard Doc come into the house through the back door. Then raised voices as he confronted his wife in the kitchen. Marty’s curiosity drew him out of his bed. Although he knew it was a little wrong, he cracked the door open an inch or two and tilted his ear towards the opening. The voices immediately clarified themselves a little.

“...Understand, Clara! You are almost to the end of your pregnancy. The slightest bit of excursion could induce labor!”

“Oh, Emmett, we’ve been over this. I feel fine. Even Dr. Peterson agrees that I can still fix meals and do light housekeeping.”

“But you have a high risk pregnancy. Dr. Peterson can’t possible understand the complications that could arise!”

“Of course not,” Clara said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “A man with his experience can’t be expected to understand medicine.”

“All the education in the world right now wouldn’t make him understand,” Doc said. “There’s simply a lot that doctors do not know about the human body at this time, especially with women. This is serious business, Clara. I don’t want you putting our child in danger.”

Something clattered loudly on the stove. Marty winced.

“Emmett Lathrop Brown, I would never dream of endangering our child! You are being utterly ridiculous and completely overreacting! I’m not an invalid. Having a baby is something women have done for thousands of years, and often they worked a great deal harder until their child was born.”

“You’re not just any woman; you’re my wife. Many women now typically bear children earlier in life, particularly first children. Don’t worry about the cooking or cleaning or any housework for the next several weeks. I can keep it under control.”

“Keep it under control? You’ve scarcely left the barn for the last two weeks!”

“You’ll understand why very soon. Clara, please, go to bed. I’ll take care of everything.” There was a pleading, weary tone to the inventor’s voice.

“No,” Clara said, her voice firm. “Here is your supper. I’ll take Marty’s to him.”

At the sound of his name, Marty flinched back,closed the door as softly as he could, then hurried back to his bed. Clara couldn’t move too fast at the moment; therefore, he was calmly settled in bed, pretending to write, when she rapped on the door, then nudged it open.

“Here you go,” she said, rather curtly, setting a tray loaded with food down on the foot of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Marty said. He eyed her, noticing the flush in her cheeks and the way she had her fists clenched at her sides. “How are you doing?” he asked lightly.

“I will be fine once Emmett stops fretting so much,” she said. She walked over to one of the windows, peered out, then crossed the floor back to the bed, clearly agitated. “I never imagined he could be so....so like a man.”

“Um?” Marty didn’t really know what to say about that.

Clara elaborated without any prompting. “When I first met Emmett, and got to know him, I was delighted to find how unconventional, how very unlike, he was compared to most men I knew. He treated me as an equal, and that’s a rare quality to find in a man now. At least it was back east. Now!” Clara shook her head and threw her hands up in the air as she paced, emphasizing her point. “Now he is acting like such a fussbudget! I haven’t felt this coddled since I was a child!”

It took every bit of Marty’s concentration to keep a straight face when Clara used the term “fussbudget.” He hadn’t heard that come out of the mouth of anyone but Grandma Sylvia, his dad’s mom. He sensed that if he laughed or even smiled, Clara would probably turn her rage on him. That was the last thing he needed right now. “Oh,” he managed.

Clara’s wasn’t taking any care in lowering her voice, nor had she closed the door behind her when she went into Marty’s room. Doc definitely had to have been hearing this. This seemed to be confirmed when Marty heard the back door slam, hard. Clara paused a moment, turning her head in the direction of the noise, then sighed.

“He’s out to the barn again. What on earth is he doing in there all day?”

“Beats me,” Marty said. “He’s not letting me in on that little secret right now.”

Clara frowned crookedly. “He cannot possibly expect to tend to all the chores in here by being out there.” She turned abruptly and left the room without another word. Marty wasn’t entirely sad to see her go. The last thing he felt like doing was getting caught in the middle of a lover’s spat between Doc and Clara.

Well, maybe this will distract Doc enough so he’ll stop forcing me on bed rest, Marty thought, picking up the dinner tray and setting it on his lap. After one meal, eating in bed had already lost what remote appeal it had ever had, but he still would rather do that than deal with Clara venting about Doc.

* * *

It was near midnight when Doc dared to venture back into the house. He was reluctant to go to bed, but he also was at the most ideal point to stop for the night. To push on would mean he wouldn’t be able to go to sleep until at least three in the morning, and that would give him only a couple hours to rest before he would have to rise and prepare breakfast. Pulling all nighters or operating on a few hours of sleep normally did not faze him too much, but with the current project at hand and Clara’s impending due date, the inventor didn’t want to risk wearing him out unnecessarily.

The house was quiet as he entered via the back door. The kitchen was clean, the stove still ticking as it gradually cooled. While normally Clara would leave a light burning in there so he could see his way around the room, tonight was an exception. There was no light. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, what with Clara’s temper lately, but it still disappointed him. He locked the back door behind him, carefully made his way through the kitchen by touch, made sure that the front door was locked, then hesitated at the foot of the stairs. After a moment, he turned away from the steps and headed down the hallway, towards Marty’s room. He stopped before the teen’s closed door, noticing that it was ajar a few inches, a light burning within. Doc listened for a moment and, hearing no noise, grasped the knob and pushed the door open slowly.

The oil lamp on the bedside table was lit, the flame flickering a little. The supply of oil would likely need to be refurbished soon. Marty was curled up on the bed under the spare blanket that was normally kept at the foot of the bed. Doc presumed he was asleep, but the teen’s eyes opened almost immediately upon the inventor’s arrival.

“You’re still awake?” the inventor said softly, surprised.

“What does it look like?” Marty said, sounding annoyed. He sat up and leaned back against the headboard. “I’m getting all stuffed up now from this cold,” he complained, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. “I can’t breathe if I lie down, but I can’t get comfortable if I’m sitting up.”

Doc’s hand shot up and reached across the space that separated them, feeling Marty’s forehead. Marty brushed his hand away almost immediately, irritated. “I’m not running a fever, Doc. Listen, do you have anything I could take so I can go to sleep?”

“To take care of head and nasal congestion? No, not really. Nothing without tremendous side effects, anyway. It might help to have some hot tea. I can make some, I suppose.”

“If you think it’s worth it.”

And that was why, a few minutes later, Doc was trying to stoke the fire in the stove hot enough to boil the teakettle. Although he had given Marty firm instructions to remain in bed, the teen wandered out to join him a few minutes later, wrapped in a thick quilt. He took a seat at the kitchen table, something in his eyes daring Doc to reprimand him.

“You should stay in bed,” Doc couldn’t help saying.

“I’m fine,” Marty said crisply. “So what’s up with you and Clara?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...I heard you guys talking earlier. She seemed a little ticked off with you.”

“You heard that?”

“Neither of you were really keeping your voices down,” Marty said. The chair creaked as he leaned back. “What are you doing out in the barn?”

Doc closed the door of the oven, having roused the fire up from coals, and checked the kettle on the stovetop. The water was warm, nothing more. “Sorry, that is classified information right now. You’ll have to simply be patient.”

“If it’s what I think it is, then I don’t know why you’re not telling me anything,” Marty said, hugging the quilt around his shoulders.

“All will be revealed in a week,” Doc repeated, determined not to spoil the surprise he had in store for his friend and his wife. He sat down at the table across from Marty.

“So would this be a bad time to ask how the plans for a new time machine are going?” the teen asked dryly.

Doc simply smiled and said nothing. Marty stared at him a moment, waiting for an answer, then resurrected a prior topic. “So why don’t you let Clara do what she wants?”

“Marty....”

“I’m serious, Doc. She’s pissed, and I don’t blame her. Do you have any reason to think she should stay in bed all day?”

“Yes,” Doc said immediately. “Her age, coupled with the primitive medical care of the time.”

“But did the doctor tell her to lie around in bed?”

“He told her to take it easy,” Doc said. “Whatever the doctor said to her is irrelevant, anyway. His knowledge is not advanced enough for a woman like Clara.”

“Doc.” Marty leaned forward, across the table. “Haven’t women of all ages had babies for, like, thousands of years? Before hospitals and sterile conditions and all that?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Doc said softly, bracing his fingers against the tabletop. “There is only one Clara, and I want to ensure that the health of both her and the baby is not endangered.”

“Making her angry and stuff is probably not great for her health or for the baby’s,” Marty pointed out. “That’s not reducing her stress or anything. Besides, she has another point -- you’re locked in the barn all day. If I’m supposed to stay in bed because you think I’m gonna keel over from a simple cold, and she is, too, how are we supposed to eat and not do stuff for ourselves?”

Doc narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “She persuaded you to share this with me, then,” he said, flatly.

Marty shook his head. “No, she didn’t. I’m interfering on my own. If I have to live under the same roof as you both, then I guess we should all get along. Especially if you guys are going to have a kid in a few weeks.”

Doc tapped a finger against the tabletop, not liking the sensation he had at the moment of two being against one. “Clara will cool down,” he said. “I’m sure that the stress of the pregnancy is not making this any easier for her.”

Marty chuckled, the sound turning into a cough. Doc looked at him, concerned, but the teen ignored it. “I wouldn’t tell that to her,” he said. “Not unless you want to sleep on the couch for the next year. You still seem to have a few blind spots with women, Doc.”

Doc arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, but that’s okay; you had all that time being single and stuff. You can’t learn everything overnight.” The smile on his face faded and Marty looked down at the table, running a finger over a small scratch on the surface. “I’ll see Jennifer again, right?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes,” Doc said, almost entirely confident about the matter. “You’ll get back home someday, eventually.”

“Good. It’d be nice to do it before I’m thirty, though.”

Doc repressed a shudder at the idea of his friend returning home to his life more than ten years older than he was supposed to be. Well, he would have to do something to fix that aging issue. At least Marty looked a little younger than his current age. That would hopefully continue.

“You’ll be back home by then, I assure you.” He climbed to his feet to check the kettle. The water was barely wafting steam; it would do, he supposed. Doc moved over to the tin of tea and removed a mug from the cabinet. “I want you to drink this in your room, then try to get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find an extra pillow for you -- maybe you’ll feel better with a couple of those behind your head.”

“Yeah, right.”

The inventor waited until his friend had gone back into his room, armed with the tea and another pillow, before he headed upstairs again, tired and worn out. He half hoped that Clara would be sound asleep when he came in, preventing any potential arguments from erupting. At this hour, he simply did not want to deal with anything like that.

No such luck.

Doc knew the moment he walked into the bedroom that his wife was awake; her breathing was not as deep and slowed as it would be in a state of slumber. He closed the door and walked across the floor to his side of the bed and sat down to remove his boots. There was a tension in the air that made the inventor’s skin crawl. If that kept up, he knew that he wouldn’t sleep very much. He opened his mouth to speak, but Clara’s voice came out of the darkness first.

“Emmett?”

“Yes?”

Doc fully expected to hear another argument as to why he should let her roam around the house without any restrictions. He even expected, on some level, to be told to sleep elsewhere. What he did not anticipate was what came out of his wife’s mouth.

“I’m feeling a bit of pain. Does that mean the baby is coming?”

The inventor straightened up. “How long have you felt it?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps an hour. It isn’t consistent. Perhaps it is simply indigestion.”

Doc reached over to his bedside table, fumbling around for the box of matches that rested near the base of the lamp. As he removed one of them from the box and struck the head of a match against the rough side of the box, he was surprised to find that his hands were steady. Outside, he was still, but inside a low panic was starting to build.

Doc lit the lamp at his bedside and turned to look at his wife. Clara lay on her side, facing her husband. Her eyes were wide, a little scared, but when she spoke her voice was low and steady.

“It may be nothing, Emmett.”

Doc didn’t buy that for a second. “How frequently are the pains coming?”

“I’m not sure....perhaps every ten minutes.”

The inventor reached across the covers and placed his hand on his wife’s belly. Under the fabric of her nightgown, the skin was stretched hard and firm around the bulge of their unborn child. “It sounds like contractions,” he said. “I should get the doctor.”

“At this hour of the night?” Clara was aghast.

“I want the doctor to deliver the baby. We’ve discussed this.”

“Yes, but...oh, this could be nothing, Emmett. The baby isn’t due quite yet.”

“He or she is due to come within the next week. This could very well be it.” Doc got to his feet again, his mind whirling ahead now to all the tasks that needed to be done. “I’ll have Marty come up here and keep you company while I’m -- damn, I forgot! He’s sick.”

“Then there is no need to bother him.”

Doc drew in a deep breath, held it a moment, then exhaled sharply. “No, I don’t want you up here alone in your condition. I’ll get him, but I don’t want him getting too close to you if he can help it.”

“Really, Emmett.” There was a wry note in Clara’s voice. Doc ignored it.

“I’ll be right back. Try to note how long the time is between each contraction.”

Doc left the room at a walk, but by the time he had reached the top of the stairs at the end of the hall, he started to run. He continued at the pace down the steps and down the hall to Marty’s room. The teen had apparently heard him coming; he was sitting up in his bed, looking a little anxious.

“What’s wrong?” he asked right away.

“Clara’s having contractions. I’m going to ride into down and get the doctor. I want you to sit in the room with her and help her out in any way you can.”

Marty frowned. “You’re gonna ride into town this late? Isn’t that dangerous? Wild animals and cold and all that?”

“I’ll take the shotgun with me,” Doc said, the idea of a little cold and wildlife not concerning him in the least at that moment. “We need the doctor for this.”

“Hold it. You want me to wait around and deal with delivering the baby, then? I should be the one to go get the doctor!”

“Absolutely not. Do you want to wear your body down in the cold and come down with pneumonia? Unacceptable. Go upstairs, take your tea, and just keep an eye on her. It’s not snowing outside; I shouldn’t be too long.”

Marty looked skeptical, but he didn’t offer anymore protest. Doc waited until his friend had settled himself in the armchair in the bedroom, then, after fetching his wife her own mug of tea and a tablet of paper and pencil to keep track of the contractions, he left the property on the back of Newton, bundled under several layers.

Newton was fast. The five miles between the Brown home and the center of Hill Valley, where the doctor had both his office and his home, took Doc only thirty minutes to cover. Dr. Peterson was roused quickly, and ten minutes after his arrival, the inventor was heading back to the home, the doctor keeping the pace on his own horse.

When they arrived, Doc half expected to find the baby had come, or that Clara was near death from childbirth complications. Instead, the house was quiet. Upstairs, they found Clara dozing in bed, and Marty half asleep in the armchair. The doctor conducted a brief exam of Clara and discovered that she was not, in fact, in labor. The contractions, if that’s what they had been, had stopped. Not an uncommon occurrence near the end of a pregnancy, the doctor assured both his patient and the scientist.

The trip, Doc supposed, was not all in vain; the doctor reiterated his advice that Clara take it easy until the baby was delivered, and he looked Marty over with his cold and told him to also stay in bed several days, until the symptoms went away. Neither patient looked thrilled by the news.

By the time Doc finally crawled into bed, it was after three A.M. Although he was relieved that his wife was all right, and that Clara was not sulking about anymore, angry at him, he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that this hadn’t been the real thing. Once the baby was born, he was sure, things would get back to a more normal pace of life than they had been for the last several months. They simply had to; he didn’t think his own nerves could take such prolonged stress otherwise.

Saturday, December 25, 1886
8:29 A.M.

“Marty! Wake up! It’s Christmas morning!”

Doc’s cheerful voice cut through the layers of sleep and reached Marty’s ears loud and clear. Burrowed as he was under several layers of blankets, he did not react to it, hoping that Doc and his inexplicable cheerfulness would go away. He hadn’t gone to bed last night until after midnight, restless and plagued by the memories of Christmas past in the future with his family and the remnants of a cough from his cold. (In spite of dire paranoia on the part of Doc and, to a lesser degree, Clara, the illness was more nuisance than life threatening. However, this didn’t stop Doc and his wife from encouraging him to stay in and off his feet.) He did not want to get up and face another Christmas stuck in the past -- not before noon, anyway.

“Come on, Marty. There’s something I want to show you outside!”

“Mmprh,” Marty managed.

Doc didn’t go away. Footsteps approached his bed and then, suddenly, one of the blankets from the top layer of his cocoon was removed. “Come on, breakfast is waiting on the table.”

“Do-oc...why?”

“Why breakfast? Well, it is the most important meal of the day....”

Marty was not amused. It was impossible to have a sense of humor so early in the day. “I’d rather sleep.”

“You can do that later, if you want. Right now, there’s something I want to show you outside.”

The teen grunted from his nest of blankets. “I don’t care if we’re having a white Christmas, okay?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. Up, out of bed, now.”

Marty refused to move, however -- until Doc, knowing his friend all too well, slowly peeled away the layers from the bed. Finally, with nothing more than a sheet (and the clothes on his back) separating him from the cold air of the room, Marty left the bed, albeit with a scowl.

“This is a holiday, Doc,” he groaned, trudging after the scientist down the hall, a surrendered quilt wrapped tightly around him. “What’s the rush to get up?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” the inventor said, all too mysteriously.

In the kitchen, Clara was setting the table. In spite of the doctor’s advice, and Doc’s own efforts, Clara insisted on being allowed to cook the meals up until when the baby decided to come. The shades were drawn down over all the windows, a matter that Marty noted only peripherally, because it made the room dimmer than usual.

“Oh, good, you roused him,” Clara said, giving the teen a brief smile. “Now will you explain why I am forbidden to go out back?”

“Yes...after breakfast,” Doc said, heading for his place at the table.

Marty had not been forced out of bed at this hour, on a holiday, to accept that. He threw a quick look at Clara. The former schoolteacher looked a little annoyed herself. Neither Marty nor Clara spoke, but they reached a consensus nonetheless.

Simultaneously, they both took a step towards the back door.

“All right!” Doc said, jumping to his feet, his nonchalance disappearing. “All right, I suppose this one gift before we eat is acceptable. Let me go first -- and get your coats on. It’s below freezing outside.”

Minutes later, after boots, overcoats, and scarves had been properly donned over pajamas, the trio left the house. It was a cold, clear day out, snow from the prior week’s accumulation still lingering on the ground in mushy, iced over clumps and puddles. Although he had wanted to go out first, Doc amended the requirement in order to help his wife down the icy steps, allowing Marty -- walking ahead -- to be the first one to see what had gotten his friend so excited.

“What is that?” he asked, turning back to address the inventor.

That was a massive object, concealed by several white sheets of linen stitched together. The object was at least fifteen or twenty feet high, at its peak, and the length of a semi truck. It was set near the barn, on the side facing away from the house. Based on the condition of the ground around the object, Marty had the impression that it had been brought in recently; mud, not snow, was the prevalent texture to the earth. The fabric concealing the object trailed all the way to the ground, preventing any view from how the object was straddling the dirt.

Doc grinned, for a moment looking very mad scientist-esque. “Just a moment, and all will be revealed. Are you all right, Clara?” he added, turning to look at his wife in concern.

“Yes, yes, I am fine. What on earth is that?”

Doc smiled again as he left her side in order to stand beside the mysterious structure. “Close your eyes,” he requested.

Marty wasn’t in the mood for any games. “Doc, gimme a break!”

“Oh, you might as well humor him, Marty,” Clara said, drawing her coat around her as best she could, her big belly making it a little awkward. She obediently closed her eyes.

Marty, with a hefty sigh and feeling rather ridiculous, reluctantly complied. He heard a whisper of fabric as the sheets slid aside, a couple grunts from Doc as the linens probably caught on the odd angle or edge, then, finally, the inventor spoke again.

“You can look, now.”

Marty wasn’t quite sure what he expected to see when he opened his eyes. Definitely it was not the massive, aged structure of a steam train’s engine and wood car settled on temporary rails on the lawn. His mouth fell open a little as he looked up at it, puzzled.

“A train, Doc? This is your idea of a Christmas gift? No offense, but it’s not really all that practical to use.”

Doc grinned again. “Perhaps not around town...but around time, yes.”

It was early; that was the only excuse Marty had for not realizing everything sooner. “Wait -- is this a time machine?” He felt his breath catch in his throat at the thought. It didn’t look much like one -- it really looked like it had been sitting outside for a while, all sooty as it was -- but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Having known the inventor for a while, Marty recalled a number of devices his friend had come up with, which really didn’t look like much of anything. On the other hand, this was 1886, not 1985, and mechanical devices now, Doc’s creations included, were not very compact.

“Not yet, but it will be,” Doc said cheerfully.

Clara spoke for the first time since the reveal. “You really intend to create another time machine out of this, Emmett?"

"It's the most logical vehicle to modify for fourth dimensional transportation," Doc explained. "You can't build a time machine out of a Conestoga or anything of that nature. The steel construction will lend itself perfectly to the flux dispersal, and the boiler is the ideal present-day source of power for the necessary 1.21 jiggowatts."

Marty came forward for a closer look. “How the hell did you get this?” he asked. “They don’t sell these things in used lots or the newspaper, do they?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Doc set one hand on the cowcatcher of the train. “I purchased it from an auction that the rail company held. I’ve known for a while that the simplest solution to crafting a new time machine would be to modify an already existing vehicle capable of going eighty-eight miles per hour, one that would be able to withstand the stresses of crossing the time barrier. I’ve been keeping an eye on ways that I could acquire one -- legally, of course -- and last month heard about the auction the railroad company was holding in Sacramento.”

“Is that what you were doing those two days?” Marty asked, remembering a day in mid-November where his friend had left town for an overnight trip to the state capital. At the time, Doc had told him he was going to get supplies for the forthcoming winter, but had not invited his friend along. Someone, Doc had said, needed to stay with Clara and keep an eye on the shop. Marty hadn’t questioned the reasoning.

“Yep. It took another month for me to have it delivered to Hill Valley, then still more time disassembling it into more manageable pieces to bring out here.”

Marty frowned as he walked alongside the train, eyeballing it with greater scrutiny. “How’d you manage that without us finding out?”

“There’s a reason this is assembled here, on this side of the barn. It wasn’t too difficult to keep you busy and distracted while I took care of this. Once the pieces were here, I could work to my leisure. But I haven’t attached things together very securely; I need to move everything to a better site, so don’t get too close. This area is too open and at the mercy of the elements.”

“So why didn’t you do that from the beginning?” Marty asked, not understanding the logic.

“I couldn’t do it alone, and I didn’t want you to see anything before today.”

Clara spoke up again as Marty digested that. “How long will it take you to build a new time machine?”

The teen looked over sharply at the question, scrutinizing his friend’s face as he answered. “A while yet,” Doc said. “The train is one important step. However, I still need to purchase parts -- or make them from scratch -- to convert this train into a cross-temporal vehicle. I’ve been working on some of that this week, in the lab.”

“How long do you think that will take?” Marty asked, unable to help himself.

Doc sighed, looking at him. “We’re still a year or two away,” he said. “Now that we have this, however, I think you’ll be able to have a better sense of the progress.”

The teen was a little disappointed by the news, but not entirely surprised. “How long did you have the DeLorean before it worked?”

“Four years.”

Marty winced. Doc saw the expression and went on. “However, at that point in time I was still doing some experimentation. I was working alone, around other projects. That slowed me down, even though I had at my disposal some technology that doesn’t exist here. I don’t think it will take four years to do this. I hope not, anyway.”

Doc clapped his hands together, the sound echoing across the frozen landscape, and changed the subject. “As curious as I know you both are, I think we’d better move back inside now. Tomorrow, Marty, you can help me move this indoors.”

“Where? To the barn?” Marty couldn’t imagine how Doc planned to fit the vehicle in there with everything else he had already.

“No -- the cellar.” Doc smiled at the teen’s baffled expression. “I’ve done a lot of work to it since you were last there, preparing it for this purpose.”

Marty wasn’t sure he heard correctly. “Uh, Doc...how do you expect to get this thing in and out of there?”

“I’ll show you,” the inventor promised, “later today.”

* * *

Late in the afternoon, as Clara worked on the supper preparations, Marty headed out to the barn with Doc. The inventor had been cheerful all day, so much that he wasn’t even worrying (visibly, anyway) about What If The Baby Came Today. Marty supposed the day could have been worse. Like last year, gifts had been exchanged after breakfast. The train, Marty had correctly guessed, was the big one. He had been given a few practical things, most notably his own pocket watch, from the inventor and his wife. Clara received a great number of things for the baby, while Doc got some new clothes, all made by his wife on the sly, as well as a new hat.

Still, even after fifteen months, it didn’t quite feel like home to Marty, and he missed his family -- a lot. He tried not to think about the next big holiday, New Years, just a week away.

“I gotta hand it to you, Doc,” Marty said as they crossed the frosty lawn, “I had no clue about the train. You can really keep a secret.”

“I suppose I’ve had a fair amount of practice,” Doc said, jostling the ring of keys for the barn in an endless loop on his right index finger. “I had to keep plans about the original time machine to myself for thirty years...then there was the original time machine’s construction...and simply living in this world as inconspicuously as possible.”

Marty sighed as he thought about the last one, his breath frosting the air before his lips. “Yeah, I hate that. Some days I just wanna scream from having to keep my mouth shut all the time about stuff in the future.”

Doc nodded, the gesture as clear as day even in the increasing dusk. “Oh, I know all about that, believe me. At least we can talk about such things in the privacy of our home. I can’t imagine how I would feel if I was still alone in this time; nine months was difficult enough. Or how it would be if Clara was never told about our origins.”

They stopped before the locked door of the barn. Doc fumbled for the correct key. “Would you even be able to do that?” Marty asked, trying to envision the scenario.

Doc made a so-so gesture with his free hand. “Perhaps for a while, but not indefinitely. Keeping a secret that large from the general population is draining enough. From your spouse, it would be utterly exhaustive. Besides, Clara is quite perceptive, and no doubt she would guess something was...off, I suppose, if we spent so much time together in close proximity. I would have told her, regardless, before we were married. She would need to know what she was getting herself into.”

Marty nodded as the lock clicked. Doc pushed the door open and picked up the oil lamp from where he had set it on the ground. “Do you think I should tell Jennifer about this stuff, when I get home?” he asked. “I mean, she saw the future and all.”

Doc paused before stepping into the building. “She will think that experience was just a dream, Marty,” he said, “and that’s for the best. Information and knowledge about time travel can be extremely dangerous. You’ve seen what can happen when it falls into the wrong hands.”

Even more than a year later, the memory of the Biff-warped world elicited a shudder from the teen. “Yeah...will things be back to normal when we go back?”

“I would say so. The newspapers wouldn’t have changed otherwise when you burned the almanac.” Doc stepped across the threshold, Marty following a pace behind.

“So what’s the harm in letting Jen know what’s going on?” Marty asked, bringing the topic back to the point he was most interested in. “She won’t do anything bad knowing about it.”

Doc slipped behind Marty to close the door, sighing heavily. “Perhaps so, but the very knowledge that a time machine exists -- or even existed -- could be dangerous. I’m not going to forbid you to share the information with her, Marty, but I will ask that you give it some serious thought before you do so. You should have ample time to do that.”

That was certainly true, Marty realized with a slight sinking feeling in his gut. He looked around, trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

The barn, since the move, had been transformed. When Doc had bought the place in June, it had been messy and filled with dirty straw and rusted out or broken farm equipment. Doc, with Marty aiding him, had swept out all the floors, torn down nearly all of the animal pens and stalls, and taken care to install locks and secure latches on all the doors and windows.

Once the building had been upgraded and cleaned, Doc had covertly moved a number of his inventions and projects out of the livery stable in town, and into the barn-cum-lab. With privacy and better security, Doc had created -- or was in the process of creating -- many new devices that were around so commonly in the future. However, the “replacements” were often so crude and cumbersome that Marty was rarely able to recognize anything for what it truly was.

One of these was the huge, massive object settled in the far corner of the building, in what looked like one of the few remaining horse stalls that had escaped destruction. To Marty’s eyes, the thing looked like one of those natural gas tanks one might spot outside in the future. However, when he had asked about it -- a couple months ago, when it had first appeared -- the inventor told him he was working on a steam powered generator, hoping to eventually get a supply of electricity going out in the lab.

The barn was not only a space for Doc’s hobbies and creations. A small part of it was set aside for the use it had been constructed for in the first place -- a couple stables for the horses that traveled from town, and a space for a buckboard wagon, along with a few necessary farming tools. Marty wandered off in that direction to check on the horses while Doc headed for the faded rag rug spread out over one portion of the wooden floor.

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how much progress I’ve made down here,” he commented as he knelt down on the floor and began to roll back the rug. “When were you last in the cellar?”

Marty scratched his head as he thought. “Uh....late summer?” he guessed, turning around from the horse stall. “I know it was still hot out, ‘cause I remember it feeling nice and cool down there.”

“Ah.” The rug rolled aside, now, Doc reached for the small, circular catch that lay flat into the floor. A small, nearly invisible square of three feet by four feet was etched into the wood. A trap door. “Will you get the lamp?”

Marty crossed the width of the barn to retrieve the oil lamp that Doc had left on a worktable near the door. By the time he reached his mentor’s side with the light, Doc had pulled open the trap door, revealing a set of steep stairs that gradually faded into thick darkness.

“Hold onto the railing,” he warned Marty, taking the lamp from his hand. That said, he turned and started down the stairs. The teen heeded the advice, not in the mood to break his neck in a time before sterile surgery and X-rays.

As they descended, the air grew warmer by degrees, the layers of earth acting as the world’s best insulation. Doc’s lamp was the only source of light, though Marty caught sight of lamps embedded into the stone and wood walls, every five to seven feet.

“Don’t you want to light those?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the large chamber.

“Not now, no. It’s an ordeal to get them all extinguished, and I don’t intend to spend much time down here tonight.”

After about ten steps, the wall on the left fell away, and the railing grew a little higher and much steadier. Even with the single light, Marty could see why -- below, on the other side of the balcony railing, the floor was a good twenty feet down. It would be a hell of a fall if he slipped. The light, however, failed to provide him any details to the space below, beyond the drop. It was large, though, with plenty of open space. The ceiling -- thick beams of wood -- was approximately thirty feet above the ground.

There were thirty-one steps from the top; Marty counted. When they reached the bottom, Doc veered to the left. Marty trailed after him, looking around and squinting in an effort to see better. He felt like he was in a cave, a really big --

His toe hooked on something set on the ground, and the teen found himself abruptly falling. Too surprised, and thoroughly caught off guard, he toppled forward, landing on hard, packed dirt and gravel. Something even harder than a rock clipped him on the chin as he landed, bringing stars to his eyes and sending a white hot pain up through his jaw.

“Ooooooohhh.”

Doc turned at the sound of the fall and the soft groan of pain. “Watch your step,” he said.

Now you tell me, Marty thought, too stunned to immediately voice a response. After a moment he sat up, tentatively touching his jaw. It was already throbbing, but it didn’t appear to be broken. The culprit of both his fall and the pain in his jaw was a set of railroad tracks that now stretched from about ten feet away, and continued out towards the back of the large cellar, disappearing into the darkness before they ended.

“These weren’t here earlier,” he murmured, his jaw aching from the effort of speaking.

“Nope,” Doc said. “I had them professionally installed. They run down a tunnel, about a quarter mile, the pop out of two doors set in a clearing. I paid some men to lay tracks from that point to one of the branches another quarter mile away, so the train can move from there fairly easily.”

Marty vaguely remembered that Doc had hired, or talked about hiring, some people to take care of construction stuff. “Isn’t that dangerous?” he asked, getting back to his feet, ignoring the throbbing bruise on his chin in favor of answers to questions. “Didn’t they find that weird?”

“I paid them well for their silence,” Doc said. “They simply assume I’m an eccentric train hobbyist. No harm in that.” He smiled.

Doc gave Marty a brief tour on the rest of the underground lair. A large closet built under the stairs, including a safe for the new time machine plans. Several worktables that had been constructed, and even a forage with a tin flume that went up, into the ceiling, through the floor of the barn, and finally emerged out of the roof. Marty found the space a little gloomy, as it had no windows, but Doc assured him that he was almost done with installing all the lights he would need.

“And once I get the generator operating, I can run some electrical wires down here and have some electrical lights,” he added.

“Do those even exist now?” Marty asked, “or would you need to make them yourself?”

“Oh, yes. Electric lights are already in some major cities. Just not Hill Valley, not quite yet. I’ll have to order the proper parts, of course, but I know my way around electricity.”

Marty smirked at this statement, recalling Doc’s perchance for setting small fires while attempting to harness electricity -- not to mention several very close encounters with lightning strikes. “Let me know if you need help with that,” he offered.

“Oh, I will, I will. Perhaps tomorrow we can get started on some time machine-related projects.”

“So you’re really gonna start working on that now?”

“The largest thing stopping me these last few months has been a lack of the proper equipment,” Doc said. “Now that I have it -- well, more or less; it’s not quite in the right location -- I can begin work in earnest.”

Marty studied his friend a moment, feeling that this was almost too good to be true. Doc didn’t seem to be joking. Nevertheless.... “You’re serious?”

“Why would I not be?” Doc asked, sounding perplexed.

“Oh, I dunno. It seems like stuff keeps coming up, I guess.”

“Marty, I assure you that this project is a high priority for me, and things will get done in as timely a manner as possible. Starting tomorrow. Are you up for helping out?”

“Are you kidding? Where can I start?”

But with dinner around the corner, Doc didn’t want to get into anything right then. Nevertheless, as they headed back up the stairs, Marty felt almost cheerful. It was a matter of time now -- and tomorrow, the work could finally, at long last, begin on a way to get home.

Saturday, January 1, 1887
6:49 P.M.

Indeed, the week between Christmas and New Years did see some progress being made with the new time machine. Between Doc and Marty, the train was dismantled from the back lawn and moved, piece by piece, to the cellar. It was physically grueling work. More than once, Doc silently thanked the decision that his past self had made to have a rejuvenation in the future. Perhaps due to that, or the fact he still did a lot of physical work while blacksmithing, he experienced only mild discomfort at night as his muscles adjusted to the strain. Marty -- much younger, but not in the same sort of physical shape as the scientist; he still didn’t do quite as much with the forge and shaping metal -- complained much more about the aches and pains in his arms and shoulders from all the work.

The work was good for Doc. At night, lying in bed next to Clara, without any distractions, his mind would almost always focus on worrying about his wife. Her due date was eminent. Every time she so much as winced or sighed, he would find his heart suddenly in his throat, and a cold, sickly weight in his limbs. He had ventured to town four of the five days, and every minute he was away, he would imagine all manner of dire scenarios involving Clara having the baby without him there.

Working on the new time machine helped him temporarily forget about the stress, while also making him feel more empowered. Finally, he was taking definite and distinct steps towards getting himself, Clara, their child, and Marty away from the time none of them belonged in.

New Years was rung in at the home. Clara, of course, was in no condition to travel, not even to town. Nature also seemed to support the decision; by mid-afternoon on the first day of 1887, the sky grew overcast and a cold, biting wind picked up. When the three of them assembled in the dining room for supper, around six, thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall and the wind was moaning around the eaves. Doc shook his head as he arrived at the table, having just left the barn after securing things for the night.

“Looks like we’ve got a good snowstorm on our hands tonight,” he said. “At least we won’t need to worry about losing power.”

“I’d rather have electricity,” Marty said from his chair, raising a glass of a fizzy, gold liquid and taking a long sip from it. He had been quiet most of the day. Doc wrote it off as a result of being up late to see in the new year, and then rising fairly early to help out in the lab.

The inventor frowned as Marty set his glass down. “What are you drinking?”

“Champagne,” Marty said. “It’s New Years.” He shrugged and raised his glass in a solitary toast.

“You’re underage,” Doc said, not pleased by this development.

“Not here,” Marty countered, taking what looked to Doc as a very large, deliberate swallow.

“Where did you get that?” Champaign, here and now, was not easy, nor cheap, to come by.

Clara, coming in from the kitchen with a dish of food in each hand, caught the question and answered it. “My family sent it in their holiday package. Remember, you brought that from the post on Thursday? Marty saw the bottle in the kitchen and asked if he might have some, and knowing that you or I would not drink it, I didn’t see the harm.”

“He shouldn’t be drinking alcohol,” Doc said.

Clara looked baffled. She glanced over at Marty as she set the dishes of potatoes and stuffing out on the table. “Why not?”

“He’s too young. In our time, the minimum legal drinking age is twenty-one.”

“But we’re not in 1985,” Marty said, bitterness evident in his voice. “I can do this here without getting in trouble.”

Clara looked stricken. “I didn’t know, Emmett.”

Doc glanced at Marty again, across the table. The eighteen-year-old was sitting up straight, his gaze one of clear challenge. If Doc pursued the issue, there would be an argument, and the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was involve himself in a childish verbal battle. Especially at the supper table, on New Years.

“That’s all right,” he said to his wife, then added to Marty, “I trust we won’t have a repeat of what happened the night I proposed to Clara?”

“I’m not gonna puke on you,” Marty said, sharply.

Clara’s forehead creased at this term. No doubt it didn’t yet exist. But the dinner table was not the place for explanation. Doc changed the subject as his wife sat down at the table. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine, Emmett,” Clara said. “Although I must admit that I am quite ready for the baby to make his or her arrival. My back has been aching all day.”

“Not uncommon at this stage of pregnancy,” Doc said. “You don’t have to be on your feet so much, though.”

“I am not going to simply sit around as a woman of leisure might,” Clara said, her tone leaving virtually no room for argument. “Besides, if I sit around, I simply begin to worry. I would much rather be busy and have something to show for my energy beyond fretting.”

Doc thought there were a lot of things his wife could do to occupy herself that didn’t involve cooking or even cleaning, but he wisely held his tongue. “You’ll be more than a little busy soon,” he warned. “An infant is a lot of work.”

“I welcome it,” Clara said sincerely. She touched her belly, the gesture almost unconscious. “The baby cannot come too soon so far as I am now concerned. I’m eager to leave the house again.”

After supper, Doc helped his wife clear the table and do the dishes, ignoring her comments that she was capable of doing it herself. He thought she looked tired and a little pale, perhaps from the prior late night, ringing in the new year. When the kitchen was cleaned up, everything put away until the following day, the former schoolteacher went upstairs to take care of some mending work. Doc adjoined to the parlor, where Marty was already slouched in an armchair by the fire. His gaze was fixed on the crackling flames. He didn’t react whatsoever with Doc’s entrance except to raise the bottle of champaign to his lips and take a swallow of the liquid inside. Doc frowned, concerned and irritated by the sight.

“Was the glass not enough for you?” he asked, stopping near the fireplace mantle. Stockings from Christmas one week ago were still suspended on small hooks above the brick tiles on the hearth. In one corner was the Christmas tree, still fully decorated, dried pine needles scattered on the red tablecloth that had been laid underneath to protect the floor.

“You and Clara cleared it away when you were doing dishes,” Marty said, not looking up. “I wasn’t done yet. ‘Sides, you guys aren’t gonna drink this. Might as well not let it go to waste and all that.”

“I think you’ve had enough already.”

Marty ignored the suggestion. “I’ve had enough of this time, that’s for sure.”

Doc was a bit surprised by the comment. He knew that Marty was still homesick, but now that they finally acquired a vehicle to modify to a new time machine, he had expected the teen to be more optimistic about their circumstances. Doc sat down on the ottoman that went with the other chair near the fire, facing his friend from a few feet away. “What’s wrong, Marty?”

“Everything. Nothing. Take your pick.” He raised the mouth of the bottle to his lips again.

“I know you want to go home, but you need to be patient. We’re a great deal closer than we were this time a year ago...or even a month ago.”

“Close only counts in horseshoes and all that crap.”

Doc glanced at the bottle once more. The glass was tinted a dark green, too dark for him to see inside with only the firelight and lamplight for illumination. He suspected, based on the sound the liquid made when Marty moved it, that it held approximately half of the beverage that had once filled it. “I think you should stop drinking, now. Alcohol is a depressant, you know, and you certainly seem down enough without that in your blood.”

“Screw off. It’s my body. It’s my life. You don’t seem to care about it, anyway, most of the time.”

Doc resisted the urge to sigh or roll his eyes. “Yes, that is exactly why I’ve fed you, clothed you, and let you live with me for the last sixteen months. It’s why I’m bothering to voice any concern about your underage drinking tonight. Your mother was an alcoholic, Marty, don’t you remember?”

Marty shot him a surprised look that quickly morphed into a glare. “She isn’t anymore. Not since I changed things.” He raised the bottle again and took several large, deliberate, swallows, not breaking his gaze from Doc’s.

The inventor got to his feet. Marty drew the bottle to his chest, as if thinking that his friend was going to take it from him. Instead, Doc walked over to one of the windows, pulling back a corner of the drapery and peering outside. The snow on the ground provided some illumination, and he could hear small pellets of an icy mixture hitting the panes of glass, but he could not see how hard it was falling out there. He remained standing there for a moment, quietly reminding himself about how difficult this situation was on Marty and that an argument would do nothing to enhance the evening. He didn’t want to upset Clara, either. Doc knew by the looks he occasionally caught her giving Marty that she was already concerned enough about his friend. However, not knowing him since his appearance in the past, she couldn’t understand how different he really was now, how depressed he really was.

“You know, Marty,” he said, still facing the night, his breath condensing on the cold window glass, “it would be much easier if you simply told me what was bothering you. Preferably without any alcohol in your system.”

He heard a soft snort from behind him. Doc went on.

“I know you’re angry with the situation you’re in, but there is nothing you can do to change it right now. Nor am I the cause of your being here...not entirely. I warned you to leave me here, you remember. You came anyway. Then I did everything in my power to send us both back home. I miscalculated. I accept some of the blame. But not all of it. I’m doing everything I can to fix this, but it will take time. And, in the meantime, there are things to consider.” He turned around. Marty was staring off into the fire again, but Doc knew he was listening. “I have a wife. I have a family. Bills need to be paid. We need a place to live. We need food to eat. There are practical, day-to-day needs that must be met.”

“Yeah, right. You never used to be like that.” Marty sat up straighter in his chair and looked at Doc, this point clearly important to him. “The Doc I knew would’ve spent all his time 24/7 working on a new time machine. We wouldn’t still be here more than a year later.”

“No,” Doc said. “I tried that, to a degree, when I landed here two years ago today. I was still firmly in the past, nine months later. I can’t work miracles, Marty. Some things take time, and building a time machine in a technologically primitive period -- compared to the 1980’s, at any rate -- is one of them. Do not blame Clara, or the child we’re having, for delaying or distracting me. I thought you understood this?”

Marty didn’t say anything, which gave Doc all the answer he needed about the matter. The inventor moved away from the window and returned to the warm radius at the hearth side. “I know this is tremendously difficult for you. Believe me. I also think that, on the whole, you’ve handled the matter well. You’re being careful when we’re in public. You’re helping out with the business. I promised you that we would all return to the future someday. Just because we haven’t done that yet doesn’t mean I failed. I never gave you a deadline, did I?”

Marty did not react in any way except to raise the bottle to his lips again. Doc fought back the urge to grab it away, though he had every intention of removing it from his friend’s side before Marty consumed the entire quantity of liquid. The last thing he wanted was to deal with a case of alcohol poisoning. He didn’t think he’d have to wait much longer for a better opportunity. The teen’s face was already flushed from the booze and his movements were more sluggish than they had been at dinner. Doc also suspected that the distant, glassy look to his eyes was not entirely due to far off thoughts or daydreams.

“A lack of success sixteen months after I promised you that you would get home, eventually, does not mean that I have failed. Great Scott, Marty! I warned you it would take years.”

Marty belched softly as he lowered the bottle again, resting it on the arm of the chair. “You also promised me you wouldn’t have any kids. Or that you’d hitch with Clara. There’ve been a lotta broken promises to me, Doc, so ‘scuse me if I don’t buy everything you say now.”

Doc found himself clenching his hands into fists, not out of anger but out of sheer frustration. “Those are not the same, Marty. We’ve already had this discussion.”

“Well, you asked. Just thought I’d remind you why I don’t really trust you anymore. And you know as well as I do that this kid is gonna screw things up all over again. Nice move, getting Clara knocked up. You coulda controlled that, at least -- it’s called self control. You could’ve asked me all about it.” He started to raise the bottle once more, but Doc reacted this time, reaching across the space that separated them and yanking it free of his friend’s grip. Slowed by alcohol, Marty’s reflexes were no match for Doc’s. He blinked, looking surprised by the sight of Doc standing before him, now holding his drink.

“You’ve had enough,” the scientist said flatly, his anger and irritation oozing into the statement. “I think you need to go to bed, now, before you vomit on the floor or say something else you really don’t mean.”

Without allowing Marty a chance to answer, Doc marched out of the parlor, cut through the dining room, and entered the kitchen. He poured the remains of the champaign down the drain, noticing that only a quarter of the bottle had remained, then set the bottle down on the countertop with a hard clatter. For a few minutes he simply stood there, leaning forward and bracing his hands against the side of the countertop, staring outside at the blur of white. Some of Marty’s words poked uncomfortably against his conscience, things that he himself had already thought. Once more, he also felt uneasy prickles of guilt about what he was doing to his friend, having him live here now. It was for his death that Marty had come back to avert. Yes, Doc knew that he had warned Marty against making such a detour, but he also remembered, vaguely, not putting up a tremendous amount of protest in 1955 when Marty had made the decision after discovering the tombstone. If he hadn’t come back, Doc would be dead, but Marty would be back where he belonged, Clara would not be involved, and a human being who never existed in any capacity wouldn’t be days away from entering the world.

Was that truly a tragedy? Doc emotionally wrestled a moment with his obligation to the universe, and his own right to personal happiness. He suspected he would never reach a comfortable conclusion on that for the rest of his life.

The dark was a soothing place to be. After several minutes, Doc felt his composure trickle back. He left the kitchen and returned to the parlor, expecting to find Marty where he had left him. But the teen was gone.

Good, Doc thought, taking the chair that his friend had vacated. The last thing I need tonight is another drunken lecture.

There were a great number of things that Doc could’ve done at that moment, but instead he simply sat in the chair, listening to the ticking of several clocks and the creaking of the house as the wind gusted outside, throwing more icy flakes of snow against the windows with hard, sharp cracks. He wondered, again, what to do about Marty, how he could help him out in this time, if there was anything here that the teen could hold onto for sanity and enjoyment. Even his music didn’t seem to be doing that anymore.

When the clock struck nine, Doc got to his feet and extinguished the lamps in the room. The fire was reduced to amber coals, which would burn themselves out momentarily. He checked the latches and locks on the windows and doors, then made his way down the hallway past the stairs, to Marty’s room. The door was closed, no light shining under the crack at the bottom. The inventor rapped softly on the door. There was no response. Concerned, he gripped the porcelain knob, set lower than the doors of the future, and turned it, easing the door open several inches.

Although there was no light burning in the room, the drapes had not been closed, allowing the odd illumination of snow to provide marginal light with which to see by. It was enough for Doc to spot Marty draped across of the covers of his bed, fully clothed. He was clearly out like a light, sprawled half on his back, half on his side, snoring softly. Doc stood there long enough to measure his breathing, and assure himself that Marty wasn’t too deeply under before he closed the door and headed back down the hall.

Tomorrow, Doc wagered as he ascended the stairs, Marty would no doubt feel a little regretful about his indulgence in the champaign. He hoped that it would cause enough remorse for his friend to avoid drinking. Doc was by no means a teetotaler -- and even he, with his reaction to alcoholic beverages, had turned to the bottle for solace more than once in his life, the last time being the morning after Clara had dumped him -- but he knew that a depression, combined with an urge to escape, as well as genetic tendencies towards alcoholism would lead to no good for his friend. The fact that they were in a time and a place where Marty wasn’t considered underage, and the alcohol available was often stronger and harsher than a hundred years from now, would not help matters, either.

At the top of the stairs, the quiet of the house was broken by a soft moan. Doc froze for a moment, wondering if he had imagined the sound. He started to turn around, back towards the stairs, suddenly uneasy about Marty. Then the sound came again, slightly louder, and he found himself twisting abruptly to face the upstairs hallway. For the noise seemed to come from that direction, right from his bedroom.

In that moment, time stood still. A cold fist suddenly gripped Doc’s heart, so hard he couldn’t breathe. All thoughts about Marty and alcohol suddenly vaporized from his mind. Then his feet were moving rapidly towards the closed door at the opposite end of the hall.

“Clara?” he called out. He reached the door and opened it before any answer could be voiced. “Clara?” he asked again, lowering his voice only marginally.

The lamps were still glowing in here, both at the bedside and at the small table in the alcove where Clara did her sewing. Doc didn’t see his wife at first, and his heart accelerated sharply. “Clara?”

“Here.” The word was uttered with a half gasp. Doc rounded the foot of the bed to see his wife on the floor. Clara was bent over, kneeling forward, bracing her palms against the floorboards. She looked up as Doc stopped, her face white and her eyes hugely wide. “I think it’s starting, Emmett,” she said in a low voice. “I -- it hurts. I was going to tell you, but it just struck me so hard...”

Doc knelt down next to his wife and helped her stand. Clara leaned against him, one arm circling around his waist and the other holding her swollen belly. “How long have you been feeling any pain?”

“My back has been hurting all day, but I didn’t start feeling these new pains until after dinner. I thought it was indigestion. It’s not so bad, now,” she added as Doc helped her sit down on the edge of her bed. “They’re such odd pains, coming and going.”

“Those are contractions, my dear. It means that the baby is going to be born, soon. You didn’t happen to notice how far apart they were, did you?”

“No. I wasn’t thinking too much of it. Could this simply be another scare?”

Doc winced at the idea of a repeat of that. His nerves were still recovering from the incident. “Maybe, but the baby is due any time, now. Here, I want you to take this and keep track of the pain,” he added, removing his pocket watch from his vest. “I’m going to get Marty and we’ll figure out where to go from here. I may go into town and leave him here with you,” he said, though the idea was not very appealing in a number of ways, particularly since Marty was intoxicated. He wouldn’t trust the teen to deliver a baby stone cold sober, and certainly not less than that.

Determined to not give Clara anything more to worry about, however, he said nothing about the matter. Once she was settled back on the bed, pillows boosting her into a comfortable reclining position, Doc gave her a quick kiss, then hurried out of the room and downstairs.

He burst into Marty’s bedroom without the least bit concern for being quiet or respecting his friend’s privacy. Now was not the time to do things gently. The teen did not so much as twitch at his arrival. After fumbling around to light the lamp at Marty’s bedside, turning the wick as far as it would go to squeeze out as much light as possible, Doc gave his friend a rough shaking.

“Marty? Wake up. Clara’s in labor, now.”

For his efforts, he received nothing more than a soft groan, and an incoherent mumble. Damn the alcohol! Doc grabbed Marty by the front of his shirt and yanked him roughly into a sitting position, setting him none-to-softly back against the headboard. Marty’s eyes popped open as his head bounced back against the metal bars and a soft cry of pain escaped his mouth.

“You awake?” Doc asked, staring intently into his face. Marty’s eyes started to slip closed again. Doc gave him another hard shake and cupped his hand under his chin, not allowing the teen’s head to droop. “Marty!”

Marty blinked once, slowly, his eyes having trouble focusing on Doc’s face. “Huh?” His breath still smelled clearly of the alcohol.

Doc spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “Clara is in labor. I need your help.”

Marty blinked again, the glaze over his eyes not dissipating. “What?”

“I need your help, Marty. The baby is coming. Can you stand?”

“Uhhh...uh huh.” Marty sounded perplexed and groggy. Doc leaned back and removed his hands from his friend, allowing him to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He visibly swayed as he perched on the edge, squinting at Doc. “What time’s it?”

As Clara had his pocket watch, Doc had to glance at the wind up alarm clock at Marty’s bedside for the answer. “Nine fourteen P.M. Not very late.”

“Clara had the baby?”

Doc gritted his teeth, frustrated. He reached for the washrag draped over the side of the washstand near the bed. “No, she’s in labor, having contractions.” He dunked the rag in the water, gave it a quick squeeze, then clapped it around the back of Marty’s neck. He let out a yelp, sitting up straighter, his eyes widening in shock.

“What the hell?”

Doc kept a firm grip against Marty’s feeble struggles to pull away, holding the cold, dripping rag tight against the skin. “I need your help. Are you awake? Truly?”

“What does it look like?”

Doc frowned grimly, catching a faint slur to the words. “I warned you about drinking. Damn!” He abruptly removed the rag from the back of his friend’s neck and tossed it back to the washstand. It landed on the floor with a wet spat. Marty stared at it, distracted.

“Come on, then, and try to make yourself useful.” He backed away, giving his friend the space to stand. Marty remained where he was for several seconds, looking at Doc with a sleepy, baffled expression on his face. Finally, he seemed to realize what was expected of him and stood, slowly. He staggered as he did so, but didn’t fall down. Good.

Doc turned and walked briskly down the hall, on his way to the kitchen, now. Marty went after him, the occasional thump telling him his friend was tipping into the walls.

When he reached the kitchen, Doc busied himself for a moment lighting the lamps. By the time he finished, illuminating the room as much as was possible with the current resources, Marty had joined him and collapsed into a chair at the table. His face was still flushed pink from the effects of the alcohol.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” the inventor said, more sternly than the situation dictated. Marty stared at him, still glassy-eyed. “I need you to boil some water.”

“Really? For the baby?”

“No, for tea -- and coffee, which I would say you’re in dire need of.” Coffee, Doc knew, was no substitute for simple time when it came to sobering up, but at least he would have an alert, drunk Marty as opposed to a lethargic, drunk Marty. “I suppose you might want to set aside some of the water for sterilization. Can you handle that without burning anything -- including yourself?”

“Sure, no problem.” Marty pushed himself to his feet, stumbled, and nearly knocked over his chair. Doc sighed inwardly, then left to return to his wife. He didn’t like the way things were shaping up, and that feeling intensified as he swung over to the front door before ascending the stairs. He looked outside, through the long skinny windows that framed the front door, and reached for the doorknob.

When he stepped on the front porch, the wind was like a slap in the face. Icy particles whipped against his cheeks and past his lips, temporarily taking his breath away. The scientist narrowed his eyes against the onslaught, trying to see beyond the porch railing a few feet away. Powdery snow was already drifting up on the porch, and the paths that had been trampled were filled in, only slightly hollowed to indicate any difference between the snow that had been untouched since the last storm.

Doc stood in the doorway a moment, evaluating the grim situation. His heart started to skip and he shivered, not from the cold but from the realization about their current circumstances. There would be no trip to town for him, not in a blinding snowstorm. Doc was desperate, but not dumb. If Clara’s labor progressed, if this wasn’t another case of premature contractions, then he and Marty would have to handle the matter. Alone.

Oh God, the inventor thought. He knew first aid, and much about human biology, even if he wasn’t “that kind of doctor.” If the birth was normal, perhaps it would turn out all right.

But if there were complications....

Don’t think about that, Emmett! he told himself firmly. You cannot panic. Clara needs you. You cannot panic.

A particularly strong blast of air whipped the front door wide open behind him. He turned at the loud bang as the door slammed against the wall, startled out of his whirling thoughts. But the distraction was welcome, successfully snapping him back to earth. Doc deliberately focused his mind on the next logical step. Just the next logical step, and no further. If he broke the situation down that way, he would be fine. Step-by-step, just like a project.

Check on Clara. Yes.

Doc went back inside, his clothes damp in patches from the small bits of snow. He went up the stairs, feeling oddly calm now, and down the hall to the master bedroom.

He found Clara in approximately the same state he had left her, perhaps ten minutes before. As she looked up at him, he saw fear in her eyes. He smiled as warmly as he could.

“Any more contractions?” he asked.

There was a brief hesitation. “Two,” she admitted. “One at 9:17, and the other at 9:25.”

Doc did the mental calculations. “Eight minutes apart, then,” he said. The inventor sat down at the foot of the bed, near his wife’s feet, and reached over to take her hand. Clara’s palm was clammy. “This could still prove to be false.”

The former teacher shook her head. “I.... The last one was strong,” she said, lowering her voice. “I.... Oh, Emmett, I think I might have....” She shook her head, suddenly unable to finish.

Doc was confused. Then he glanced down as Clara lowered her head and saw the dampness on the quilt under her, and spreading on the lap of her dress. He realized two things immediately: what Clara had thought had happened, and what really happened.

“Your water’s broken, Clara,” he said, trying fiercely to contain the panic surging up at this new development.

“What?” Clara looked mortified.

“The amniotic sack surrounding the fetus in your womb has ruptured. That’s normal, and nothing to be ashamed about. When that happens, it means the baby is coming. This isn’t a false labor; it is real.”

“Oh.” The look of relief that crossed Clara’s face was so intense Doc nearly laughed. “Oh, thank goodness, then.”

Doc forced the corners of his mouth up into what felt like a pained smile. He didn’t like the words he was about to speak. “There’s a blizzard outside,” he said. “It’s bad enough that I don’t think it would be wise of me to set off to town in it. It looks like I may have to deliver our baby, with Marty’s help. No doctor.”

Clara bit her lip. “Marty is going to help?” she asked, sounding distressed. “Isn’t that....isn’t this a bit....”

Doc once more realized what she wanted to say. “I can’t do this alone, Clara. I will certainly deliver the baby, but Marty will need to assist -- if he can manage,” he added, recalling the teen’s drunken condition.

As if on cue, there was a clear sound of something heavy and breakable shattering from the direction of the kitchen below. Doc and Clara both turned their heads towards the open bedroom door. “Excuse me,” Doc said with a sigh, extracting his hand from his wife’s grip, and rising from the bed. “I’ll go check on that. If you can manage, change into a light nightgown. I’ll bring up some towels to let you clean up and prepare for the delivery later.”

Doc had expected protest to these orders, but Clara simply nodded. He hesitated, uncertain about leaving her alone, but she gave him a faint, shaky smile. “I can manage that on my own, Emmett.”

Not entirely assured, but concerned by the noises he had heard downstairs, Doc left her, closing the door as he left to give her more privacy. As he hurried down the upstairs hallway and down the stairs to the first floor, he wondered what he would find. A mental image of Marty face down on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken glass or cookware, nagged at him.

When he burst back into the kitchen, however, he saw the teen kneeling near the sink, the ceramic remains of the water pitcher scattered on the floor around him. Water was splashed across the floor in a wider circle. Marty seemed transfixed by the sight of the damage. It wasn’t until Doc spoke that he looked up.

“What happened?”

Marty moved his eyes from the mess, to the inventor’s face, then shifted his gaze to the counter next to the sink. “I picked up the pitcher, but it leapt outta my hands.”

“It leapt out of your hands?” Doc repeated, making no effort to hide his skepticism.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Doc sighed heavily. “All right, then, clean that all up. And don’t cut yourself on those pieces. We’re snowed in; I can’t get to a doctor.”

Marty blinked. “You can’t get to the town doc? But you said Clara was in labor.”

“She is. And her water broke, so this isn’t a false alarm. But there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I’m not going out in that storm to find the doctor and leave her here alone.”

Marty lurched to his feet, nearly falling. “I can go,” he said.

“The hell you can. Even if it was a perfectly clear night, I wouldn’t allow it. You’re drunk, Marty. You can barely stand, and you just broke a very nice pitcher simply moving it.”

Marty put out a hand against the counter to stabilize himself. “I’m not drunk.” He sounded mildly insulted.

“Yes, that’s precisely why I can smell the alcohol on your breath all the way from over here.” Doc stepped over the spilled water and broken pottery on the floor, snagging the tea kettle on his way. He filled the pot at the pump, then retraced his steps to set the kettle on the warm stovetop. Marty watched him, still gripping the countertop with one hand.

“I just had some champaign.”

Doc sighed and shook his head. “Three fourths of the bottle is more than ‘some.’”

“Well, I haven’t had any for a coupla hours.”

“It will take more than two hours before your body can filter all that out of your system. The best thing for you to do is have some water and sleep it off. But....” Doc sighed again, hating the current circumstances. “I need your help tonight. I can’t do all this alone.”

Marty drew himself up a little straighter and folded his arms across his chest. He swayed a little and hastily threw out one leg to catch himself. “I told you before, Doc, I’ll help you out with this. I can still help out with it now.”

You look like you need help yourself, Doc thought, a little angry by his friend’s current state. He did his best to repress his emotion, knowing how fruitless it would be to give voice to them at the moment. “I suppose,” he settled on. “Go get some towels and clean that up before you do anything else.”

Marty complied without another word, perhaps sensing Doc’s frustration with the matter. Doc busied himself by stoking the fire in the woodstove, adding more fuel, and locating another pitcher to fill with water. By the time he had tended to these chores, Marty had managed to wipe up the mess and pick up the broken pieces of pottery without slicing open his skin in the process.

“What else do you want me to do?” he asked after that task had been completed.

Doc glanced up towards the second floor, his mind distracted once more by thoughts of Clara’s condition. “Make a tray to take up, will you? Pour a cup of tea and two cups of coffee when that’s all ready and bring it upstairs to my bedroom.” He focused his eyes on his younger friend, feeling this point needed emphasis. “And for the love of God, Marty, don’t spill anything else. Be careful.”

Marty looked stung by the admonishment. “I will,” he promised. He stopped the inventor as he turned to leave the room. “Hey, uh, Doc?”

“What?”

“Are you really going to deliver your own baby?”

“I don’t believe I’m left with much of a choice. Why?”

“How much do I....am I going to have to be, like, your nurse with that?”

“I don’t know,” the scientist said honestly. “I know that Clara is a bit skittish with the idea of you being in the room, but I really don’t think we’ve got the luxury to be picky about things like that.”

Marty shifted, looking a little uneasy. “Is it gonna be really....gory?”

“To a degree, yes, but this is nothing worse than what you’ve probably seen in health class. If I recall, that film about death on the highway is far worse in my opinion with the degree of gore displayed.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Marty said. But Doc thought he suddenly looked more pale than he had a minute before.

He ignored it for now, concern for his wife pushing everything else out of his head for a while. He ascended the stairs two at a time, pausing to rap briefly on the bedroom door before opening it. In the time he had been gone, Clara had changed into a cotton nightgown and stripped the bed down to the sheets. She was holding onto one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed as Doc came in, her lips drawn together in a flat expression of pain.

“Another contraction?” he guessed, making a beeline for her side.

Clara nodded, not speaking. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the bedpost. Doc slipped an arm around her. After what seemed like a lifetime, the pain eased and Clara let go of the post with a deep sigh. “They’re getting stronger,” she said. “But not any more frequent, not that I know. I’ve felt only one other one since you left.”

Doc looked at one of the clocks situated in their bedroom. Since this whole fiasco began, no more than half an hour had passed. It seemed like twice that. “This may go on for a while yet,” he said. “Here, lie down. Why are you up?”

“You told me to change, and I felt it prudent to remove the wet linens to launder later.” Her eyes drifted to the ajar door. “Where is Marty?”

“Downstairs, preparing some coffee and tea. He’ll be up in about ten minutes, I would guess.”

“What was that crash downstairs from?”

Doc grimaced, not wanting to share such news with her at the moment. However, he liked the idea of lying even less at that moment. “The water pitcher. He accidentally dropped it on the floor.”

“Oh.” Clara sighed. “I liked that pitcher.”

Doc led her to the bed. “Yes, I know. It was an accident, more or less.”

“How could it not be an accident?” Clara sounded confused by the idea.

Doc definitely did not want to go into that at the moment. He changed the subject. “Can I get you anything? A book? Something to drink?”

“Water, I suppose.”

Once more, Doc left the room, returning to the kitchen. In the time he had been gone, Marty had managed to set up a tray to take up to the room. He looked at Doc suspiciously when the inventor arrived back in the room.

“Checking up on me, huh?”

“No, not at all. Clara wants some water, and you know as well as I do that we have no indoor plumbing yet upstairs. How are you feeling, Marty?”

“Fine.” The response was brisk, a little clipped. “What about you?”

“Nervous and scared, frankly. But I’ll have to ignore that for now. I don’t want to upset Clara.”

“I don’t think she’d be upset to know that you were having doubts or anything like that,” Marty said. He sat down at the table next to the tray and leaned back into the chair. “It’s normally, probably,” he added around a yawn.

“Maybe so, but in many cases, the fathers are not typically the people who deliver the babies.”

“Doctors always did now?” Marty sounded surprised. “I thought that wasn’t done until a hundred years from now?”

“No, no, doctors didn’t typically deliver children unless there was a medical reason...and I still stand by my conviction that Clara’s age is medical reason enough in this day and age. Midwives were typical to use during deliveries, however.”

Marty leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms on the tabletop. “You didn’t line one of those up?”

“No, because I thought the doctor was going to handle things. Besides, it wouldn’t do us any good now, even if we had settled on one. Not with this blasted storm.” Doc shot a quick glare towards the nearest window, and the snow that lay beyond.

“Huh, I guess. What were the names you guys had picked out, again?”

“Nothing has been one hundred percent decided. Clara and I do like Jules, after our favorite author Jules Verne, for a boy. He played a profound role in our courtship, after all. She is partial to the name Emily if it’s a girl, or Charlotte after a sister who died. I like the name Marie, for Marie Curie.”

Marty smiled faintly as he closed his eyes. “You’re gonna put that kid in therapy with some of those names,” he murmured.

“No. Remember, this is the Nineteenth Century. Names like those are perfectly acceptable.” Doc waited a moment for a response. When none came, he reached out and touched Marty’s shoulder. “Are you still with me?”

“Mmmhmmm. I’ve got a headache.”

“Ah, yes. Likely a side effect from your overindulgence in the champaign. Drink some water. That may help.” Doc grimaced when he remembered why he had gone down there in the first place. “Great Scott, Clara wanted water! I almost forgot!” He removed a glass from the cabinet shelf, poured it full of water, and hurried back through the corridors, up the stairs to the bedroom. The mother-to-be was sitting up in the bed when he returned, but Doc realized she had moved since he had left her; sewing from the basket near the window was now spread over her lap.

“Don’t look at me like that, Emmett,” she warned when he stopped short to stare. “In between these contractions, I don’t feel terribly different. Certainly not bothered enough to simply lie here without a thing to do.”

Doc decided not to say anything about that. Instead, he handed her the glass of water. “Here,” he said. “The tea should be up here shortly, I think. The water was not quite warm enough yet.”

Clara took a few swallows of the water, then set the glass down on the night table. She leaned back against the pillows and gave her husband a somewhat strained smile. “How soon do you think before the baby will be here?” she asked, placing a hand on her round belly.

Doc checked the time again. “Not before midnight, I hope. I would stake money on a birthdate of January second more than January first.”

“I suppose he or she may appreciate that later,” Clara said. “Their birthdate won’t be overshadowed by a holiday.”

“Or an anniversary,” Doc agreed, recalling where he had been two years ago that night, concluding his first day in 1885.

“Have we settled on a name, then?” Clara asked.

“I thought we had for a boy, unless you had a different idea. Did you make up your mind yet if the baby is a girl?”

“No. I suppose if we do have a daughter that can wait until we meet her.” Clara grimaced suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Here comes a new one.”

Doc watched the pain hit her, concerned. Clara was tough; she simply closed her eyes, arched her back a little, and drew in a deep breath. When it passed, approximately thirty seconds later, she sighed and opened her eyes. “That’s done.”

Feeling anxious with his wife in such a state -- and there being little he could do about the situation -- Doc strode over to one of the windows and peered outside. He half hoped to see a clear sky and stars above, an abrupt end to the storm. His wish, however, was not granted. Not even remotely. Damn.

“You needn’t worry, Emmett,” Clara said, as if she had read his mind. “Women have had babies before without doctors around.”

“Perhaps. But this is intolerable. If something were to go wrong....” He clamped his mouth shut, willing the idea out of his head.

“I’m not worried, Emmett,” Clara said softly. Doc turned to look at her. She appeared as calm as she sounded. “I daresay I’m more worried about what to do after our baby is born.”

“You won’t be facing that alone,” Doc promised. “I want an active role in parenting. I’m not like those men now who think child rearing is strictly women’s work.”

Clara smiled, the lamplight softening her features and making her look little more than a teenager right then, in spite of her condition. “I know, dear. It’s one of the things I love about you. However, I’ll be here all day. I can do much of the work at that time. You shouldn’t overtax yourself. Aren’t you forgetting your other responsibilities? To your job? To Marty? ”

At the sound of his friend’s name, Doc had the urge to check on him again, lest he scald himself pouring the tea. “Marty,” he said aloud. “I’ll be right back....”

Clara’s voice stopped him two step away from the door. “Is something wrong with Marty? You’ve been acting awfully strange....”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean....” Doc sighed as he looked at her, opting for the truth instead of a fib. She would find out sooner or later. “He’s a bit inebriated right now.”

Clara blinked twice. “Inebriated? How so?”

“He consumed more than half of the champaign bottle before I got that away from him. He’s staggering, slurring his speech...and dropping things. That’s what happened with your pitcher.”

“Oh.” Clara frowned. “That doesn’t sound terribly like him.”

“It’s not...I hope. I don’t know.” Doc ran his hand through his hair, a little agitated about the matter. “Marty’s mother was an alcoholic before he changed things in the past -- he mentioned that once or twice to me. I don’t remember this, of course, just as I don’t remember his parents being the former troubled people they were, but I suspect he does. I would have thought that being exposed to an alcoholic parent would make the child turn away from such self destructive behavior and avoid it. But this is, so far as I know, the third time he’s had something alcoholic to drink since we arrived back here in this time.”

“He never did such things before?”

“No....but I’m not entirely naive enough to believe that, either. Marty is a teenager. Teenagers usually find themselves exposed to alcohol or prone to experimentation, particularly in high school party situations. It’s illegal for them to drink in that time, until they turn 21. Whether or not he ever partook in that sort of juvenile bravado experience, I don’t know. He didn’t seem too keen on the idea of drinking before.”

Doc sighed, glancing down at the floorboards, then over at his wife. “I’m worried about him, Clara. I know he’s unhappy and disappointed with the current situation. Unfortunately, it’s going to take more time before we can leave. I don’t know if what he’s doing now is his idea of teenage rebellion against the closest thing he has to a parent or a sign of something deeper. I worry that it could be the latter.”

Clara studied her husband, a small frown settling on her lips. “Perhaps he would feel better if he were to be kept busy. I know that these last couple weeks had to have been hard on him, with that headcold and then the holidays.”

“I thought that months ago,” Doc admitted. “That’s why I tried to get him involved in smithing and with other projects around here. I hope the baby isn’t going to stir up more grief for him.”

“What makes you think that’s the cause?” Clara asked, her tone one of surprise.

But the inventor did not want to tell her precisely what was said at the fireside. “Perhaps I’m reading into things too deeply. I’m going to make sure he hasn’t hurt himself by spilling boiling water all over. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

“Certainly. It doesn’t appear that the baby will be making an appearance in that time.” She smiled, teasing, but Doc was too stressed to see the humor.

Downstairs, again, in the kitchen, he found Marty exactly where he had left him -- sitting at the kitchen table, his head down, the tray for the beverages inches from his nose. On the stove the water was beginning to come to a boil in the kettle, but the teen was oblivious; while Doc surveyed the scene, Marty let out a soft snore.

The scientist rolled his eyes, frustrated, and stepped towards the stove. “Ridiculous,” he muttered as he removed the kettle, pouring the water into a couple waiting mugs. Well, he’d let Marty sleep for now; maybe the rest would hasten the after effects of the alcohol from his system, allowing him to be more help than hindrance when Doc really needed him.

It would likely be a few hours before the baby made his or her appearance, based on how far apart the contractions were. Doc’s patience was already stretched thin. He doubted he could tolerate much more of Marty’s alcohol-impared behavior, especially with the stress stirred up by the snowstorm and his wife’s labor.

Once Doc collected the water, replacing the kettle on the stove to keep warm, he took the tray upstairs himself, leaving Marty slumped at the table. He just hoped that when he needed his friend’s help later that Marty could be counted upon -- if he could be roused at all.

Doc did not like to entertain the notion of being completely without aid. Marty was still better than no one at all.

Sunday, January 2, 1887
1:58 A.M.

For a while, he simply drifted, oblivious to everything and anything. The disappointment at being stuck in the past, still, for another new calendar year...the consistent ache in his heart from missing Jennifer and his friends and family...even the biting, dizzy headache that had started to bother him. All that was gone, blissfully gone.

Then, abruptly, the peace was shattered by a most intrusively demanding voice, coupled with a rough shaking.

“Marty...Marty, wake up!”

Pain spiked in his head with every jolt to his body. Doc’s voice -- Marty recognized it almost immediately -- simply escalated the sensation. He tried to escape it, tried to hold onto the murky, soothing lack of awareness, but the inventor was bound and determined not to allow that to happen. Doc simply continued to shake him and repeat his name with increasing forcefulness.

“Marty! I really need you awake, now, Marty.”

Realizing that escape was impossible -- the teen recognized that determined tone in his friend’s voice, even with an aching head -- Marty raised his head and opened his eyes as minimally as possible. The room gave a disorienting tilt as he did so, and things within his vision looked dim and fuzzy. “Ohhh,” he groaned softly, shutting his eyes and reaching up to cover his eyes with a hand. It was hard to talk; his mouth felt as void of moisture as a desert in the middle of summer.

“You awake now?” Doc’s voice was brisk, clipped.

“Mmmhmm.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them again, blinking a few times. The room slowly sharpened into focus. He was in the kitchen, at the table. How he had arrived there, he really had no immediate idea. He sat up more, pain shooting through the back of his neck as he shifted. How long had he been sitting there, his head on the table?

“Clara’s contractions are less than two minutes apart,” Doc said, speaking so rapidly that Marty found it hard to follow him. “I need your help up there, now. She needs someone to hold onto, and I can’t do that, not if I’m going to deliver the baby.”

“Clara’s in labor?” The throbbing in his head made it hard to think, to remember anything.

Doc looked like he was going to shake him all over again. His hair was unruly, as if he had been tugging at it, and his eyes wide, panicked. “Yes! We’ve already had this conversation. Come on, Marty, I need you right now.”

Feeling like this had to be a dream -- one where he felt kind of lousy, actually -- Marty allowed the scientist to drag him to his feet. As he stood, the room pitched again, seeming to grow dimmer. He gripped Doc for a moment for support, until things stabilized. The ache in his head grew sharper when he left the chair, accompanied by a wave of nausea. Each ebbed a bit, after a moment.

As if the inventor could read his mind, Doc said, “It’s been several hours since you had that alcohol. I would guess that you feel a little ill right now from the negative biological side effects.”

“Uh huh.” He would’ve killed for water, but the way Doc was ushering him along through the house, upstairs, Marty didn’t think it was the time to mention that. “How long was I asleep?”

“You’ve been passed out there for approximately four hours.” The rephrasing did not go unnoticed by Marty. For the first time he wondered if his friend was mad at him. “Now when we get in the room, I want you to be calm. Don’t frighten Clara. I need you to help me and follow orders. Do what you’re told the first time. Understand?”

He felt sick enough that argument was not much of an option then. “Uh huh.”

Marty wasn’t sure what to expect when they entered the master bedroom. In all the movies and TV shows he had seen, women on the verge of childbirth were often wailing, screaming, or cursing. They also delivered in sterile hospital rooms, with no sign of blood and barely any sign of perspiration.

When they went in, the first thing Marty noticed was that Clara wasn’t screaming. She lay on the bed, clad in a nightgown, boosted up in a sitting position by pillows. Her dark hair was in a long braid, spare strands plastered against her cheeks and exposed skin. Sweat was beaded on her brow and soaked the nightgown so that, in patches, the fabric was nearly transparent, clinging to her curves like a second skin. There were stains on the sheets, Marty saw -- they looked like small amounts of blood. The sight increased his wooziness and knocked the nausea up a notch. Clara’s bare feet were braced flat against the mattress, legs bent at the knee and protruding up in the air. Her long nightgown, however, prevented the teen from seeing anything that might haunt him later.

Clara raised her head at their arrival, her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Emmett, here comes another!” she moaned, one hand balled into a fist, the other clutching a handful of bedding.

Doc hurried forward, leaving Marty’s side in favor of the foot of the bed. The teen clutched at the doorjamb, momentarily feeling too weak to stand. His mouth, if possible, went even drier. He didn’t want to be here. Oh, he so did not want to be here!

“Marty, take Clara’s hand, sit down in the chair,” the inventor barked, pointing to the desk chair positioned at the bedside.

Marty felt frozen, but the look Doc gave him -- a mixture of stern desperation -- broke the paralysis. He stumbled away from the doorway, giving the foot of the bed a wide berth, then collapsed into the chair. Once he was seated, Doc bent forward, rolling back the hem of the nightgown so that it stopped halfway up Clara’s thigh. Marty stared at her legs for a moment, surprised by how pale her skin was. Then Doc shot him a look that made him drop his gaze to the floor, embarrassed.

“Don’t push yet,” the scientist warned. “I don’t believe you’re fully dilated quite yet. Pushing to soon could cause the skin to tear.”

“Really?” Marty croaked, woozy by the very concept.

Clara arched her back and clenched her teeth together. No screaming, but the low, guttural moan in the back of her throat was enough to give Marty nightmares. He blotted his suddenly damp palms on his lap, then realized he was supposed to hold Clara’s hand. He clumsily fumbled for her hand -- and then gasped when it was seized and squeezed, hard.

“Jesus Christ!” he uttered, suddenly trying to wrench it away. Clara, however, held on, crunching the fingers of his left hand in a vice-like grip.

“You’re doing fine, Clara,” Doc said, glancing up to give his wife a strained smile. “Isn’t she, Marty?”

“Great!” he managed in a whisper, gritting his own teeth against Clara’s grip.

When the contraction ended, she abruptly loosened her hold on his hand, sagging back to the pillows. “Oh, Emmett, it hurts!” she murmured, her voice filled with pain. “Something is wrong!”

“Everything looks textbook to me,” Doc said, the cheerfulness ringing false to Marty’s ears. The teen used his free hand to wipe his forehead. He was already starting to sweat a little. The room was hot and stuffy, giving him a vague sensation of cholasteraphobia. A glass of water and a pitcher stood on the nightstand, the liquid half drained from the former. He looked at Doc, decided he looked far too busy for any nonsense questions, then took it upon himself to drain the rest of the glass and pour another.

Consuming the tepid water did little to make him feel any better, however. His stomach cramped, inducing another wave of nausea, but Marty ignored it. He didn’t want to risk Doc’s ire if he had to leave the room. The fact he had bothered to wake him up and drag him up here told Marty all he needed to know about his friend’s need for support now.

“Marty, that water is for Clara,” Doc said, startling from his thoughts. There was a note of mild scolding weaved into the words.

“Do you want me to leave and get my own glass?” Marty asked, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. The headache was still raging, the heat and stress not helping matters.

Doc didn’t have a chance to answer. Marty’s hand was once more seized in a painful, bone crushing embrace. His eyes popped open immediately. Clara was enduring another contraction, the veins in her neck standing out sharply and a faint whimper now escaping from her lips.

“Another one?” Doc asked, which was probably the dumbest question Marty heard him utter that night. “Marty, how far apart are they?”

“How the hell should I know?” Marty snapped. “Since when am I the timekeeper?”

“Since -- damn, I didn’t tell you to do that, did I?”

“You think?”

“You’re doing fine, Clara,” Doc said, bending down again.

“It hurts!” Clara moaned.

“I know, dear, I know. It will be over soon.” He glanced up to smile at her, then looked over to Marty. “When this contraction ends, I need you to bring the towels from that chair over here.”

As Clara was holding onto him at the moment, her grip painful enough to actually rival his headache, Marty could only nod. When she turned him loose, a moment later, he moved hastily to take care of Doc’s request, his hand throbbing from the abuse. However, he returned to the bedside chair once he fetched the fresh towels from an ottoman nearby. He didn’t feel well enough to stand, and at least with his vantage point at the head of the bed, he wouldn’t have to risk seeing anything gory -- he hoped. Marty knew he couldn’t stomach it if he did.

When another contraction hit Clara, Marty gave her the damp rag from the washstand to grip, rather than risk additional damage to his hand, and instead patted her shoulder. She didn’t seem very aware of her surroundings anymore, her eyes squeezed shut against the agony in her body.

“I want to push,” she moaned. “Please, let me push!”

“All right, Clara,” Doc said. “The head is starting to crown. Push with the next contraction, all right?” His voice was utterly calm, but Marty could tell by the way he was standing and the way his eyes were dilated that he was feeling anything but cool inside.

“All right,” Clara said, her voice breaking on the words. She glanced once at Marty, who was feeling increasingly ill from either his hangover or the tense situation at hand. “Will you take my hand?”

The teen resisted the urge to sign and groan. He managed a shaky, weak smile. “Okay,” he said, pivoting slightly to extend his left hand to her. If she crushed his right hand again, he was pretty sure something would break, and his guitar playing days would thus be over.

When the new pain hit, prompting Clara to clench hold of him, Marty found himself once more biting back a few curses to vent his own discomfort. “All right, push, Clara!” Doc said, which was totally unnecessary. Clara was apparently ready to do just that. Her entire body trembled with the strain. Marty felt queasy just looking at her. He took a deep breath of his own, then swallowed hard as nausea twisted his gut once more.

“I see the head!” Doc exclaimed. “Clara, I see the head!”

A mental image of what his friend was seeing popped uninvited into Marty’s head. He groaned softly, resting his head against the back of the chair.

Clara fell back against the pillows, gasping hard for air. Her eyes were watering, either from the effort or from the pain. She looked thoroughly miserable to Marty right there.

“I’ve got the head in my hands,” Doc announced, not looking up from where he was at the foot of the bed, backed up against the footboard of the bed. “I need another big push from you, and then I think that might be it!”

Clara simply moaned in response. “I don’t think I can,” she murmured, rolling her head back and forth against the pillows. “No.”

“Yes, you can! Can’t she, Marty?”

“Uh huh,” the teen managed, swallowing hard again as his stomach threatened to rebel. He was going to get sick, he just knew it. “Doc, can I--”

“I need more light. Marty, bring those lamps over here.”

Marty did not want to go anywhere remotely near the foot of the bed now. However, the door was near that area, anyway. He managed to pry his hand free from Clara, just before she bolted forward again as nature forced her to resume the process of childbirth. Marty hurried as fast as he could to get the lights moved for Doc, averting his eyes from where his friend was crouched, coaching his wife through these last moments of delivery.

“I have the shoulders.... I see the torso....the stomach.... Great Scott, he’s out!”

WIth that, there was a faint gasping noise, a whisper of a cough, and the sound of angry wails filled the air. Marty couldn’t help himself; he looked up, and saw Doc holding the infant in the air, bloody, covered in a goopy white substance, still connected to Clara via the umbilical cord.

Even if he hadn’t been feeling on the verge of getting sick, it would’ve been enough to turn his stomach. Without a word, not trusting himself to speak, Marty set down the lamp in hand so hard he heard part of it shatter, slapped a hand over his mouth, and ran like hell from the room. He knew he could never make it outside, let alone down the stairs. He managed to make it to the small room that Doc often talked of converting into a bathroom when he had the time and money for the proper parts. The room was dark, save for the oddly white glow emitting through one small window. It provided enough illumination to lead Marty to the washtub that resided in the room. It was better than the floor. He fell to his knees, hung his head over the side and threw up, his mind echoing the gory sight he had just witnessed in a sickening loop.

When his stomach had finished sending up last night’s dinner and a rerun of the champaign he had consumed, Marty raised his head slowly and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He could hear, faintly, from down the hall, the sound of the new baby crying, a strange kind of raspy cry of obvious shock and confusion, and the rise and fall of Doc’s voice as he was saying something to his wife. Marty pushed himself away from the tub and sat down on the floor, feeling too weak to stand immediately. He scooted back and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes in hopes of easing the drumming in his head.

Great, McFly, he thought. Real great thing to do to your friend right when he needed you.

The more Marty thought about the last several hours, and his part in things, the worse he felt. He hadn’t been in a great mood the whole day, not since he had to watch the new year come in again and be reminded all over again about how much time was passing while he was stuck in this distant, backward time. He honestly hadn’t intended to drink more than a glass of the champaign at dinner, but Doc’s attitude had ticked him off. Besides, he hadn’t seen any point in not cutting loose a little. He wasn’t going to be leaving the house or potentially embarass the Browns before any of their neighbors or the townsfolk.

It was dumb luck that the baby had to come tonight -- of all nights.

Marty buried his face in his hands, miserable enough that he felt ready to cry right then and there. It wasn’t any one thing that made him feel so bad. It was simply a combination of everything, along with something else, an elusive feeling of foreboding. At the time, he couldn’t be bothered to puzzle it out or analyze it. He knew that he should probably return to the bedroom, help Doc clean up or run errands or whatever needed to be done, but at the moment that was the last thing he wanted to do. He didn’t feel like risking another stomach upset by seeing large quantities of blood or other bodily nastiness. And, frankly, he didn’t feel up to facing his old friend and Clara at the moment.

Time passed. Marty’s pulse gradually slowed, and the worst of panic and shame that had plagued him began to dissipate. He wondered if he could sneak downstairs to his room and go to bed, without Doc noticing, and started to stand to do just that when he heard footsteps moving briskly down the hall, in his direction. Had to be Doc; no way would Clara be getting up anytime soon.

Maybe he’ll walk right past me, Marty thought. But the steps halted before the small room. Doc raised the lamp in his hands. The flickering, yellowed glow revealed that his clothes were mussed, splatters of red stains musing up the front of his shirt. His sleeves were rolled back, out of the way, and his hands appeared to be scrubbed clean. “Marty? Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Marty said. “I, uh....I threw up in the tub.” He gestured in the direction of the tub. “It was either that or the floor. Sorry.”

Doc’s eyes flicked towards the washtub, then ricochet back to Marty’s face. “I didn’t know you had a weak stomach.”

“It probably wouldn’t’ve been so weak without the booze,” Marty muttered under his breath. Doc frowned faintly but said nothing. The teen decided to change the subject. “Is Clara all right?”

Doc nodded once. “I believe so, but I won’t be completely at ease until the doctor has a look at her.”

“How’s the baby?”

“He seems to be healthy as well.”

“So it’s a boy, then.” Marty leaned against the wall, that elusive feeling of impending doom brushing by him once again.

“Yes, it’s a boy. I’m not sure of his birthweight now -- I need to get a scale from the lab -- but he arrived here at 2:17 A.M. I’d like you to see him.”

“Look, Doc, I dunno if I’m up to it right now....”

“I’ve cleaned up the worst of the mess, Marty, and helped Clara put on new nightclothes. She’s concerned about you and wants to show you the baby.”

“Don’t you think I should clean up my mess first?” Marty asked, nodding towards the washtub.

“I’ll take care of it. I want you to see my son -- don’t let your first impression of him scare you off.” Doc gave him a faint smile.

Half tempted to fake a fainting episode to get out of this, Marty reluctantly left the small room and accompanied Doc down the hall. In the master bedroom, where thirty or so minutes prior Clara had been lying contorted with pain, the new mother was now reclining in the padded chair near the window. Her skin still looked shiny and flushed, but she was in a clean nightgown and robe. The bed, where the horror had commenced, was stripped of all sheets. A dark stain was on the mattress and Marty rapidly averted his eyes before he could become too preoccupied with it.

Clara looked up at their arrival. She was more ill at ease now, in control again. Her eyes focused on Marty with concern. “Are you all right, dear?”

“I’m okay -- fine,” Marty lied, quickly correcting himself. As Doc had to remind him numerous times after his arrival, the term “okay” did not yet exist. Clara was accustomed to it, by now, but Marty was starting to get into the habit of automatically rephrasing himself when it happened to slip out. “Are you feeling better?”

“Oh, yes, much.” There was an almost dreamy quality to Clara’s voice. If she hadn’t just gone through a very natural childbirth, Marty would’ve bet that she was still feeling the glow from the painkillers. “Marty, this is our son: Jules Eratosthenes Brown. Isn’t he darling?”

Marty leaned forward for his second look at the small, swaddled, sleeping creature nestled in Clara’s arms. The infant, not even an hour old, was by no means “darling” in Marty’s eyes. He thought the baby’s skin was too red, it’s features too wrinkled and nondescript. A swath of downy dark hair capped the infant’s head, but beyond that he didn’t look much like Marty’s idea of a baby. Of course, the teen had never seen a baby so newborn before, either.

“He looks better than he did earlier,” he admitted.

“His eyes are a dark blue,” Clara said, stroking the child’s round cheek with her fingers. “However, Emmett thinks they will change and become brown.”

“So you decided to call him Jules?” Marty asked, not entirely surprised by the choice. That had been one of the top choices for a male name, last he had heard. “What’s up with his middle name? Euro--? Erasto--”

“Eratosthenes,” Doc supplied. “Eratosthenes was a scholar and mathematician in ancient Greece. He was famous for successfully calculating the earth’s circumference.”

Marty knew full well of Doc’s long standing habit of naming his pets after scientists. But one of his own children? “Is that really something you want the kid to get saddled with for a middle name? I mean, isn’t that a lot to live up to?”

Doc didn’t catch the faint note of sarcasm in the second question. “We think it’s an appropriate pairing with Jules Verne. A homage, if you will, to From the Earth to the Moon.” He smiled, pleased by his own cleverness.

“So this kid’s name is Jules Verne E...whatever you said?” Even to Marty, the idea was comically ridiculous.

“No. That would be a little too much to live up to.”

“And E-whatever isn’t?”

“Maybe he’s right, Emmett,” Clara said. “It is a rather cumbersome middle name.”

Doc frowned, looking mildly stung. “But I thought we agreed about this? It is so appropriate in so many ways, and Eratosthenes made a noble contribution to the field of science.”

“Doc, I know you like naming things after scientists and inventors, but these are people, not pets,” Marty said. “Trust me, bad enough you’re giving him the name Jules -- no offense,” he added hastily at the twin looks of surprise the new parents directed at him. “The second other people find out what his middle name is, though, they’re never gonna let him live it down. Hell, I got enough shit from having the middle name Seamus -- and you can at least pronounce that.”

“Nonsense,” Doc scoffed. “If anything, the other children will be exposed to learning about a great man.”

“And in the meantime they’ll be beating little Jules up,” Marty predicted, not unkindly. “Like I said, no offense. This is your kid, so you guys can name him whatever you want. I’m just trying to save him from a lifetime of teasing.”

He looked once more at the tiny baby in the crock of Clara’s arms. “Congratulations,” he said, mustering sincerity to accompany the word. “I’m glad everything worked out.” He glanced over at Doc. “Is there anything you need me to do?” The question was voiced more out of politeness and duty than anything else.

Doc thought a moment, then shook his head. “No, I think I can handle everything else tonight. You can go to bed now if you want.”

“Great. Goodnight.”

Before he enclosed himself in his room, however, Marty took it upon himself to clean out the washtub. It wasn’t much fun hauling the cumbersome, weighty thing downstairs and outside in the biting, bitter cold, but he didn’t think his friend needed to deal with that little issue. Marty removed the blankets that were bundled around the water pump, in an effort to prevent it from freezing up, rinsed out the tub, then left it to dry on the shelter of the back porch.

Then, before returning inside, he slogged through the knee-deep snow to the outhouse. There was no worse time, in Marty’s opinion, than winter when it came to lacking indoor plumbing. Yet if he offered any complaint about having to hike out at a late hour, in the foul weather conditions, Doc would simply remind him about the so-called conveyance of chamber pots. Unless it was a dire emergency, Marty simply couldn’t bring himself to use those things. It made him think of bedpans and hospitals, for some reason.

By the time he returned top the home, his hands were red and numbed from cold, and he was more than ready to climb under several layers of quilts and sleep away the next several hours. Hopefully, when he woke, his headache would be gone and his stomach wouldn’t feel quite so sour.

Doc, however, was in the kitchen when Marty entered via the back door. He was standing at the stove, his back to the teen, and Marty started to slip on by without a word. Then the inventor turned around and looked at him.

“I thought you went to bed,” he said. Marty stopped halfway to the kitchen door, stifled a sigh, and turned around.

“Well, without indoor plumbing, I had to hit the outhouse first,” Marty said dryly, stuffing his hands in his pockets in hopes of warming them up.

“That’s what the chamber pots are for on night’s like this.”

“No thanks; I’d rather brave the cold than deal with that.”

Doc nodded once, half to himself. He looked a little odd to Marty right then. “Marty...may I ask you a question?”

“I guess,” Marty said warily. “But don’t blame me if I don’t know the answer. My head is still killing me.”

“Will I...I mean, do you think that this baby...Jules...that I...well, am I too old to be a father now?”

Marty was surprised by the question. This seemed like something that should’ve come up way before now. “No,” he said honestly. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Look at me: I’ll be sixty-eight on my next birthday! People my age have grandchildren, not their first children.”

“Well, Doc, since when have you been normal? Most guys your age also aren’t blacksmithing or time traveling, either.”

“Yes, well....”

“And didn’t you get some kind of rejuvenation thing in the future? Aren’t you not really in your sixties anymore?”

“In some ways, yes,” Doc admitted. “To be honest, I have no idea if I could have thrived as much as I have in this more primitive time if I had not had that done.” The inventor sighed, looking frazzled. “When I saw the baby -- my son -- emerge, it just made me realize how much I don’t know about being a father. How to behave. What to do. I expected that certain instincts would kick in when the child was born, but I don’t feel any epiphany of wisdom about the matter.” There was a clear strain in his voice.

Marty wasn’t really sure what to say to that. Having never spent much time around little kids, especially babies, he was sure his experience in this area was even more microscopic than Doc’s. “What did your own dad do?” he asked.

Doc waved one hand in a so-so gesture. “He was often working more times than not, as was my mother. He wasn’t quite a hands on father, and until I was able to carry on an intelligent conversation with him, he seemed content enough to let my mother or the nanny make decisions about me.”

The subject of Doc’s parents made Marty wonder, briefly, where they were right now. Surely one or both had to be alive. Marty knew that the inventor’s father, or the paternal side of the family, hadn’t arrived in Hill Valley until 1908, but he had no idea if the same could be said of Doc’s mother’s family, or if Doc even knew about that. He guessed he’d have to, probably.

“You ever babysit?” Marty asked. “Or read books about kids?”

Doc shook his head, somewhat ruefully. “I gave up the idea of being a father a very long time ago.”

“Well...you seemed to handle me all right.”

“I didn’t meet you until you were no longer a child. Fourteen years old is not the same.”

Marty shrugged. “You had puppies, right?”

“Yes -- but I don’t think it’s quite the same thing, once more. I didn’t have to worry about the dogs evolving into independent human beings someday.”

Marty could see why his friend was panicking a little. But he didn’t think Doc had anything to worry about. “Well, you’ll probably learn fast. You’re smart, Doc. And Clara’s in the picture, too. It’s not like someone just dumped a baby off on your porch for you to deal with.”

Doc turned back to the stove and reached for the kettle of water. “Perhaps, but there is no owner’s manuel that comes with an infant. There isn’t even a book to consult, not in this day and age and not something reliable and based on science. I don’t think Dr. Spock has even been born yet!”

“Then just follow your instincts and all that.”

“What instincts would those be?” Doc poured hot water into a mug and spooned something into the cup.

Marty shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t have kids yet, but I always heard you’re supposed to pick up some of these skills automatically.” He sighed, wistful. “Too bad Jennifer isn’t here. She’s babysat before and I know she’d have some good advice for you.”

Doc turned around from the stove and held out the mug to Marty. “Here, drink this. It’ll help your headache and settle your stomach.” While Marty blinked at him, startled by the change of subject, the inventor added, without missing a beat, “Yes, things may be different if your girlfriend had wound up here with us. You’ll see her again, Marty, I promise.”

“But I’ll be older,” Marty said, accepting the mug and taking a cautious sip. The stuff didn’t taste so hot, but Doc and Clara’s home medicinal brews did tend to work.

“Perhaps not. I have an idea on how we may be able to make that a non issue.” Before Marty could ask for more information about that, his friend rushed ahead and picked up the prior line of conversation. “I haven’t told Clara about my lack of knowledge in this area. I don’t want to upset her to think that she may have a husband who has no basic child rearing skills.”

“Doc, that’s not true. Believe me. I know you gave me the kind of support I needed after we met. Hell, you were a much better kind of father to me than my own dad, at least Before.” Marty took another sip of the tea, grimacing as he swallowed it. “And, you know, in spite of being an ass from time to time, I’ve been kinda glad that you’ve been around and helping me out back here.” He hastily raised the lip of the cup for another swallow, feeling a little embarrassed by the confession.

There was a long pause from Doc. Unnerved, Marty gulped tea down the wrong way. He choked, started to cough, and almost spilled tea all over the front of his shirt in the process. He managed to turn, set the mug down on the kitchen table, then spent the next minute coughing, trying to clear his throat to breathe normally. Doc watched him carefully, concerned.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” Marty managed as soon as he could. He took a deep breath, let it out, then cleared his throat before speaking again. “What I’m trying to say, Doc, is that I think you’ll be okay as a father.”

Doc didn’t say anything for a moment. “I wish I had the same confidence,” he said. “But thanks, Marty. That does mean a lot to me.” He smiled faintly and clapped the teen on the shoulder.

“No problem. And, uh, sorry about tonight,” he added, knowing it need to be said.

Doc’s smile turned pained. “I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I am worried, however.”

Marty shrugged, his guilt about the champaign incident not dissipating. “Well, don’t be. I got things under control. Besides, you have enough to worry about now....Dad.” He managed a smile as he picked up the mug of tea. “I’m gonna go crash now, if that’s okay with you.”

“Certainly. Goodnight, Marty.”

Marty returned the sentiments, then slipped away, through the dark halls, to his bedroom. He set the mug of tea on the night table, still half full, then crawled under the blankets, remaining fully dressed.

In the dark, though, without distraction, he found sleep elusive. Something nagged at him once more, some little detail that he couldn’t quite bring into focus. Maybe it was that things here had changed, once more, virtually overnight. And Marty had the rather depressed realization that there was simply no going back. His best friend was now a father. What that meant, it was too soon to tell. But he was absolutely sure that it did mean something, and maybe that it didn’t mean good things for him.

* * *

Doc returned upstairs with a couple mugs of hot tea in hand, one for himself and one for Clara. He found his wife in their bedroom, still seated in the armchair where he had left her ten minutes before, cradling the baby. She seemed unable to take her eyes off the child, though she did glance up at her husband’s entrance long enough to beam at him.

“I cannot believe how marvelous he is,” she said softly, her voice hushed, as if she feared waking the sleeping infant. “What a little miracle.”

Doc set down her mug of tea on the small table next to the armchair, then sat down on the ottoman near her feet. He looked at his son, a smile unconsciously slipping on his face as he studied him. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “I’m just grateful there were no complications during the delivery. Nevertheless, as soon as the weather clears up, I’m going to fetch Dr. Peterson and have him come out to have a look at you both. I want to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

“I don’t believe there is anything amiss,” Clara said. “I feel exhausted and sore, but I suppose it is to be expected after such a physical ordeal.” She smiled once more as she gazed down at her son’s face. “Emmett, I think Marty is right about his middle name. Eratosthenes is a bit of a mouthful for anyone. It sounds a bit pretentious.”

Doc frowned, stung. “But I thought you agreed with my reasoning?”

“Oh, I no doubt that it is appropriate in some fashion, but I think there is an even more appropriate middle name for our son.” She looked up at her husband, as if expecting him to know the answer. Doc, however, had no idea what she was leading up to. It had been a long, stressful night.

“What would that be?” he finally asked.

“Martin,” Clara said.

“Martin?” Doc frowned faintly as he ran the potential name through his head. “Jules Martin Brown? I suppose there have been several notable Martins in science-related history. Martin Luther, Martin Kamen, Benjamin Martin.....”

“Or Martin McFly, your friend,” Clara said pointedly.

Doc considered that. While Marty’s behavior of the last twelve or so hours had sorely tried his patience, he did understand the relevance of Clara’s suggestion. Marty had been a friend to him when no one else had bothered. Marty had risked his life to save his...twice. In fact, the second attempt to warn him away from a grave fate, he had set things up to become stuck here.

“Jules Martin Brown,” Doc said again, softer, glancing down at the baby. The infant seemed to stir a little before settling down again, nestling his head against Clara’s chest. Doc smiled and nodded once. “All right, I suppose that will suffice.”

After a moment more of admiring his son, Doc left his perch and tackled the task of finishing the post-birth cleanup, which included remaking the bed with fresh sheets and bedding. He helped Clara move back there to rest, took the baby from her arms to set him in the small cradle that had waited for his arrival in one corner of the room, then carried the soiled bedding and towels downstairs. The clock struck four A.M. as he fetched the washtub from the back porch, where Marty had left it after cleaning it out, and then filled it with water to let the sheet soak in hopes of loosening up the worst of the stains before putting it in the automated washer he had crafted out in the labs.

While he was outside, he noticed that the wind was beginning to die down, and the snowfall wasn’t quite as brutal as it had been earlier. The storm was beginning to abate. Hopefully later that afternoon he could ride into town and alleviate the nagging anxiety about Clara and Jules’ health. There would also need to be a birth certificate filled out, which gave Doc a different source of anxiety. It would be one more legal document that proved his presence in the past, and the presence of people who had not lived through these times originally.

Thinking of that reminded him about the name issue. Before he returned upstairs, with the intent of trying to get a few hours of rest under his own belt, if possible, he slipped down the hall to Marty’s bedroom and eased the door open several inches. It was dark, but Marty still hadn’t bothered to close the curtains over the windows. He could discern the teenager’s form in bed, nothing more than a lump under several layers of bedding. Doc paused a moment then, when he saw no movement, he started to close the door again.

“Is something wrong?”

Marty’s voice floated out of the darkness, sounding more alert than the scientist would have thought.

“No,” Doc said, letting the door swing open wider. “You’re still awake?”

“Uh huh.” Doc saw him sit up, his eyes glittering faintly in the odd white light that slanted through the window. “What are you doing in here?” There was nothing more than genuine curiosity in the question.

“Just making sure that everyone is settled for the night,” Doc said. “And I thought you might want to know that Clara and I have decided not to give Jules’ Eratosthenes for his middle name.”

“That’s a relief. So what are you doing instead? Verne? DaVinci? Edison?”

“We’ve actually settled on Martin.”

The shadows made it impossible for Doc to see Marty’s reaction to this news. “Martin? Which inventor or scientist would that be?”

Doc half sighed, half smiled. “There are several, but that’s not the point. It’s you, Marty. Clara thought...and I do, too....it’s appropriate.”

“Oh.” There was a long pause. Marty’s head seemed to be bowed as he studied the pattern of the top quilt. “Well, it’s better than that other name.”

In spite of the flip comment, Doc knew his friend well enough to understand that he was actually pleased, but embarrassed. “Indeed. I’m off to bed now. Try and get some more rest yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

After ducking back into the hall, pulling Marty’s door closed, Doc remained still for a moment, thoughtful. The odd mixture of euphoric anxiety about his new role as a father had once more faded a bit, replaced by that old concern about his friend. The words Marty had uttered earlier in the kitchen -- “I got things under control” -- had rung clearly false to his ears.

I have to get the time machine built, Doc thought, his resolve even stronger now that he had added another person in the past. The sooner that’s done, the sooner Marty can move on with his life and the sooner I can stop worrying about the effect myself, Marty, Clara, and now Jules will have on history.

He owed it to his friend. To his wife. To his son. Yes, Doc nodded as he stepped away from the bedroom door, he would amp up the project as early as tomorrow. Once the doctor looked Clara and Jules over and gave them a clean bill of health, he could go back into the lab and resume some semblance of normalcy. It couldn’t be that hard to do, around his job, his new family, and the other responsibilities that came with day-to-day living.

Optimistic but exhausted, Doc finally headed up to his room for some much deserved rest, looking forward to the immediate future.

To Be Continued....