Marty McFly tried everything he could think of -- yelling, shaking, slapping, and finally just begging.  But it was no use.  His friend, Doc -- Emmett Brown to almost everyone else -- remained out cold on the pavement in the middle of Main Street where he had collapsed after Marty had run up to him.  The seventeen-year-old had to admit that he might’ve done the same, considering that this Doc had just sent an earlier version of Marty back to the future.  But he needed his help, like, now.

“C’mon, Doc,” he pleaded one more time. But the scientist’s head rolled limply on the street, in time with the shaking Marty gave him.  Damn.

Thunder rumbled overhead.  Marty had almost forgotten about the storm that had caused -- and also provided a solution to -- his problems in the first place. He looked up in time to see a streak of light arc across the street and strike somewhere close enough to rattle the ground underneath him.  The sound hadn’t entirely died away when there was a strange kind of roaring and, a moment later, the rain that he’d outrun two miles back suddenly hit, soaking him all over again.  Even the touch of the water wasn’t enough to revive Doc, and Marty came to the frustrating conclusion that he might have to wait a while before talking to his old friend.

“All right,” he muttered aloud, getting to his feet.  He ran a hand through his hair, plastered flat against his skull from the deluge, as he thought a moment.  “I guess I’ll have to take him home.”

Doc had left his Packard unlocked, but the teen couldn’t find the keys immediately.  He let it go, then, and, once he had the door opened hurried back to Doc’s side and grabbed him by the wrists.  Marty grunted as he dragged him along the pavement to the car, muttering apologies under his breath every time he accidentally bumped his friend’s head on the ground.  Lifting him into the car was like handling a wet sack of potatoes, or something, and he reflected that he’d definitely have to figure out some way to get his friend into his house from the car that was a little kinder.

Once Doc was in the Packard, slumped against the passenger door, Marty got inside, closed the door, and realized he still didn’t have the keys.  By the time he searched through Doc’s pockets, found them, and started the car, the windows were completely fogged up and the interior of the car was uncomfortably damp.  It took the defroster a while to kick in; by the time Marty was able to start the car forward on its journey, it was after ten-thirty, according to the clock in the car.

He was halfway to Doc’s mansion, driving very slowly from the downpour, when he realized he had almost forgotten something very important.  “The hoverboard!” he cried aloud, slamming his foot on the break and nearly sending the unconscious Doc through the windshield. “Christ, I left it back at the billboard!”

Marty turned the car around, quick, and drove as fast as he dared through the nearly deserted streets to the future home of Lyon Estates.  He prayed that the Western Union guy he’d left standing there hadn’t noticed it and taken it with him as an unusual souvenir, or called the press or the cops or something.  In spite of his clothes sticking to him like a cold, second skin, Marty really started to sweat in those minutes, his mind running off on tangents, such as one in which Biff Tannen found the board and started marketing them to make another hellish world.  If it wasn’t still at the billboard, he knew he was going to have a nervous breakdown. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, or the last real meal he’d had....

Fortunately for his emotional and mental sanity, the hoverboard was exactly where he remembered leaving it -- at the base of the billboard, near the old dented pale that he’d put the almanac in after setting it ablaze.  Marty left the engine on and the door open as he jumped out to snatch it up. By the time he had it in his hands and had turned back to the Packard, though, the wind had blown his door shut. He had a horrible moment of thinking he was locked out before he tried the handle and found that it was, thank God, unlocked.  Marty sighed heavily as he got back inside and set the hoverboard on the floor near Doc’s feet, grateful for that bit of good luck, as well as for the storm, which was no doubt keeping people indoors and had kept the hoverboard from being stumbled upon by passing drivers.

By the time he reached 1640 Riverside Drive, the excitement of the evening was starting to wear off and he was really starting to feel the effects of the last several hours -- or days.  The bruises he’d picked up chasing after the almanac and, before that, being chased by Griff Tannen and his gang all started to ache, as well as his head, his eyes, and the back of his neck. His stomach started giving him some serious hunger pains, too.  He put it out of his mind for now, to deal with the problem of getting Doc out of the car and into the house with a minimum of pain or discomfort for his friend -- or, for that matter, himself.

Marty opened his door and stepped out, turning around and ducking his head back inside both to get out of the rain and to grab Doc and pull him away from his door.  As the scientist slid across the benchseat, his feet dragged along the hoverboard.  Marty knelt down a little and slipped Doc’s head, arms, and upper body over his right shoulder, grabbing the hoverboard and tucking it under his left arm, under his jacket.  He wasn’t too sure about leaving that in the car overnight, where anyone could just glance in and see it.  He leaned back out of the car, grunting as he straightened with the weight of Doc on his shoulder, then slammed the door and walked as fast as he could through the sheets of rain and up the steps to the mansion.  When he got to the door, Marty held his breath as he tried the knob, afraid that it would be locked and he’d have to do another search for keys, but it opened without a problem.

The fifties, he thought, amazed. Only in a place like Hill Valley would people really leave their doors unlocked when no one’s home.

Another point in his favor, he quickly found, was that Doc had left almost all of the first floor lights on before he had left that night to send Marty back home.  The teen managed to carry Doc back to what he had considered the informal living room or family room of the place, at the back of the house, where there was a fireplace, a couch, and a television.  He set Doc down on the couch as carefully as he could, leaning the inventor against the back of the sofa so that he was sitting up... albeit still as limp as the proverbial rag doll.  Marty let the hoverboard drop to the ground and went off in search of some wood for the fire, finding a stack of it on the back porch of the house.  As he carried it inside to the cold hearth, he nearly tripped over Copernicus, the current dog of the thirty-five-year-old Doc.  The dog -- little more than a puppy -- whined as he followed Marty back to the room where the animal’s master waited.

“Sorry, boy,” Marty said to the dog as Copernicus leapt up onto the couch and nuzzled Doc’s arm.  “If you think can wake him up, go for it.”

The dog made his attempt, but by the time Marty got a fire going, he had given up to lay on the floor next to the couch, near the flames, looking mournful and worried.  The teen hardly noticed.  He stood before the flames a moment, simply enjoying the warmth, then realized if he wanted to get dry at all, period, it might do him good to shed some of the dripping wet clothes he still had on.  He stripped off the leather jacket, making a face at the way it wanted to cling on to his skin, then took off his squashing sneakers and socks.  His t-shirt and jeans were pretty damp, but unless he wanted to change completely he figured it would dry out soon enough.

The lights flickered as a clap of thunder echoed in the house, no doubt from a close bolt, as Marty turned his attention Doc.  He tried shaking him again but, when that proved ineffective, resigned himself to waiting longer.  Not wanting Doc to catch some dread disease, or at the very least wake up feeling like an overcooked noodle, Marty managed to wrestle his friend out of his soaked coat, shoes, and socks, then stretched him out on the couch in what looked to be a comfortable position with one of his housecoats for a temporary blanket.  He didn’t really know where the extra blankets were and, at the moment, didn’t feel like raiding one of the upstairs bedrooms for some.

Once Doc was settled in for possibly the entire night -- a matter Marty hoped against but... well, it was after eleven, now, and the guy’d really had a good shock -- he went into the kitchen to see if he could find some string or something to drape some of the stuff over for better drying next to the fire.  He did, in one of the drawers, but before he left the room he was distracted by the fact he hadn’t had anything to eat for a while.  Doc didn’t have too much in his fridge, but Marty made himself a turkey sandwich using some leftovers and ate that quickly, over the sink, too much still on his mind to really slow down and savor it.  He washed it down with a bottle of Pepsi that was still left behind from his week-long visit a day... or was it a couple days?... before.  The food made him feel better, a little steadier on his feet, but it also had the unusual and almost immediate side effect of making him feel much more tired.

Well, it’s been a while since I slept, he thought, heading back to the living room with the length of string he had turned up.  After stretching it out across the hearth, he draped the socks over that, once he’d wrung most of the water.  He then positioned the shoes to dry out as quickly as he imagined they could, and draped Doc’s coat over a set of fireplace tools.  His own jacket went over the funky gold peacock fireplace screen to the left.  As he settled the jacket, though, he paused to reach into one of the inside pockets and pull out a faded, browning envelope that he’d stuffed into it during his run to town.

It was the letter Doc had sent him, from 1885.

Marty frowned as he sat down on the edge of the armchair closest to the fire, turning the damp paper over in his hand a couple times as he half examined the envelope.  He closed his eyes a moment, reaching up to massage his forehead.  His dull headache worsened, no doubt due to his exhaustion and stress and everything else he’d somehow managed to live through in the last twenty four -- or was it forty eight? -- hours.  Or maybe just the last week in general.  But Marty suspected another reason for that headache was that a part of him really didn’t want to see what was in that letter. The Doc was alive; the letter was proof of that.  But what if there was some real bad news in that letter?  The fact that he hadn’t showed up, yet, to pick up Marty meant that his friend was probably stuck back there.

The teen sighed as he opened his eyes again, glancing back at the younger version of his friend still comatose on the couch, then decided he might as well get it over with, so at least he could give a full report to this Doc whenever he woke up.  Marty started to pull out the damp papers carefully from the envelope. There were three pages to it, as well as a map of some kind.  He started reading the first one, getting beyond the first couple sentences this time.

Dear Marty,

If my calculations are correct, you will receive this letter immediately after you saw the DeLorean struck by lightning. First, let me assure you that I am alive and well. I have been living happily in the year 1885 these past eight months. The lightning bolt that hit the DeLorean caused a jigowatt overload which scrambled the time circuits, activated the flux capacitor, and sent me back to 1885. The overload shorted out the time circuits and destroyed the flying circuits. Unfortunately, the car will never fly again.

I set myself up as a blacksmith as a front while I attempted to repair the damage to the time circuits. Unfortunately, this proved impossible because suitable replacement parts will not be invented until 1947. However, I've gotten quite adept at shoeing horses and fixing wagons. Therefore, I have buried the DeLorean in the abandoned Delgato mine, adjacent to the old Boot Hill Cemetery, as shown on the enclosed map. Hopefully it will remain undisturbed and preserved until you uncover it in 1955.

Inside,you will find repair instructions. My 1955 counterpart should have no problem repairing it so you can drive it back to the future.

Then, Marty, send yourself back to 1985 and destroy the time machine.

Do not, I repeat do not attempt to come back here to get me. I am perfectly happy living in the fresh air and wide open spaces, and I fear that unnecessary time travel only risks further disruption of the space-time continuum.

And please take care of Einstein for me. As you recall, I left him in my lab in 1985. I know you will give him a good home. Remember to walk him twice a day and that he only likes canned dog food.

These are my wishes. Please respect them and follow them.

And so, Marty, I now say farewell and wish you Godspeed. You've been a good, kind, and loyal friend to me and you made a real difference in my life. I will always treasure our relationship, and will think on you with fond memories, warm feelings and a special place in my heart.

Your friend in time,
“Doc” Emmett L. Brown.
September 1, 1885