“Marty, are the time circuits on?”

Marty McFly’s voice crackled over the speaker of the walkie-talkie a moment later. “Check, Doc!”

Emmett Brown smiled. “Input the destination time: October 27, 1985, 11 A.M.,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the steam locomotive.

“Check,” Marty’s voice said a moment later. Then: “We’re cruising at a steady twenty-five miles an hour, Doc.”

Doc took a deep breath as he looked at the speed gauge inside the train. It was time to take care of the final step that would ensure a successful trip back to the future. “I’m throwing in the Presto Logs,” he announced. He dropped the radio in the pocket of his coat to do just that, moving as quickly as possible, not wanting to burn his hands or his face. Once they were in and the boiler was closed again, Doc fished out the radio to address his friend once more.

“Marty, the new gauge on the dashboard will tell you the boiler temperature. The color coding indicates when each log will fire -- green, yellow, and red. Each detonation will be accompanied by a sudden burst of acceleration. Hopefully, we’ll reach 88 miles per hour before the needle hits two thousand.”

There was a pause, then the inevitable question. “Why? What happens after it hits two thousand?”

“The whole boiler explodes.”

There was a crackle of static accompanying Marty’s reply. “Perfect!”

Doc opened his mouth to say something else when their was a muffled blast from inside the boiler. The first log had detonated -- and the train suddenly surged forward as if it had been kicked by a giant. Doc felt a rush of adrenaline at the sensation -- but that feeling vanished the moment he heard the horrible sound of metal-on-metal, a screech that made the hairs all over his body stand on end. The cab lurched violently to the right, knocking the inventor right off his feet.

Great Scott, we’ve derailed!

Doc’s head clipped the metallic wall as he fell, pain shooting through his forehead. He remained conscious, however, concerned with two things -- the DeLorean, and stopping the vehicle. He reached up for the emergency break lever, yanking it back as hard as he could from his semi-sprawl. Even as he pulled, the train was slowing, bumping over the uneven terrane. The scientist stretched a hand for the windowsill and pulled himself forward, needing to see what had happened to the time machine. If the train had plowed right over it....

Doc saw the debris first, falling in the wake of the time machine, which was still moving forward quite fast. Both doors of the vehicle had popped open in the turbulence, flapping limply with every bump. The scientist couldn’t tell if Marty was still in the vehicle. He winced at the sight of the cowcatcher resting on the back bank of the car, crushing the sensitive devices mounted in that area.

It seemed like a small eternity before both vehicles finally slowed to a crawl, and then a stop. From the time of the derailment to that moment, perhaps thirty seconds had passed; it had happened so fast. The boiler was groaning and hissing, angry, but Doc paid it no mind. He started to climb out of the window, far more concerned with the damage to the time machine and how Marty had weathered the crash.

“Emmett!”

The cry, coming as he was swinging a leg over the metal lip of the windowsill, was so thoroughly unexpected that Doc nearly fell out of the cab. He swung his head around, searching out the source of the familiar feminine voice. Surely his ears had to be deceiving him.... “Emmett, are you all right?”

Doc’s darting gaze found the face that belonged to that voice after a another moment. “Clara?!” he gasped.

Somehow, going against logic and every scientific argument he could think of, Clara Clayton was running his way, dodging the bits and pieces from the time machine that had scattered in a wide area. Her face was as white as marble, her hair streaming loosely behind her, and she stumbled once or twice, clearly shaken. Yet she still looked stunning -- like a badly wished for hallucination. Perhaps that was just what she was -- a hallucination brought about by the recent stress and the blow to the head.

But why would she be wearing something I’ve never seen before in my entire life? Could my imagination fabricate eighteenth century women’s clothing in such painstaking detail?

“Yes!” Clara called in response to his exclamation, catching sight of him for the first time and giving him a wide, albeit shaky, smile. “I came after you to let you know that I believed you and that.... Oh my goodness, are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Doc said, lying only a little. His head was throbbing, particularly above his right eyebrow. He was about to add something else when he caught sight of a pile of clothes that looked exactly what Marty had been wearing that day. No... it wasn’t clothes. It was Marty, crumpled on the ground a couple dozen feet away, face down. His head was no more than two feet from the rails. Doc felt his heart temporarily freeze in his chest. “I don’t think Marty is, though,” he said, half whispering the words. “He’s over there and he’s not moving, Clara.”

“Marty?” The schoolteacher’s voice was puzzled. “Who’s Marty?”

Doc had almost forgotten -- she didn’t know. Well, there was never a better time than the present to end another facade. “Clint! Clint Eastwood is Marty! And I think he’s hurt.”

The schoolteacher immediately saw what Doc was pointing to and veered in that direction. Being closer, she reached him before the inventor could get over there, picking and stumbling his way over the debris, and reached out a hand to no doubt roll him onto his back. Doc’s reaction was instinctual and immediate.

“No, wait!” he shouted, his tone sharp. “Don’t move him! He could have a spinal or neck injury!”

Clara withdrew her hand, turning to look at Doc with a look of surprise on her face. “He shouldn’t be face down, Emmett,” she said as he finally arrived at her side and knelt down next to Marty. “I don’t think he can breathe clearly.”

“I’ll handle it,” Doc said, distracted as he tried to remember what first aid training he’d had. “Clara, can you run to town and get the doctor? I’m sure the law authorities are already on their way.”

Clara nodded without hesitation. “Certainly,” she said. “And I think you should be looked over, too. Your forehead is bleeding, Emmett.”

Doc reached up at the area that was throbbing and wiped at it rather absentmindedly. He looked at the blood staining his fingertips for a moment, then wiped it away on his coat. “It’s just a scratch,” he said, focusing more on his friend’s condition. “Marty?”

The teenager did not move -- did not so much as twitch. He lay eerily still, as limp as the proverbial rag doll. Doc looked at Clara and she bit her lip and turned away, starting to make her way towards the town at a run; she knew the situation was serious.

“Marty?” Doc tried again, his voice softer. Predictably, it did nothing to change the situation. The inventor looked at his friend and, after a moment of terrible indecision, decided to do what he had just told Clara to avoid: he reached out and, as gently as he could, rolled Marty onto his back.

The teen was still alive, breathing. His eyes were closed, and Doc saw an immediate cause for his current, still state: there was a painful-looking welt embedded in his forehead, just above his right eye. In spite of being perhaps minutes old, it was already swelling and bruising up. The scientist sucked in a breath through his teeth, knowing a serious injury when he saw it. He started to reach out to touch the wound, then realized that might not be a good idea and dropped his hand. “Damn,” he whispered, frustrated and horrified by the current circumstances.

And that wasn’t even going into the issue of the time machine. One thing at a time; right now Marty’s health was by far the most important.

Doc took the teen’s pulse, which seemed strong, and carefully checked for any signs of bleeding from the head. In cases of serious head injuries there might be blood coming from the ears, or even nose. Fortunately, there was no signs of the dark fluid; in fact, there was no sign of any blood, save for Doc’s own that was beginning to trickled down along the arch of his eyebrow and down the side of his face. The inventor hardly noticed, wiping it away as absentmindedly as he would sweat.

A brief evaluation of Marty’s current condition told Doc little more than the obvious; the teen was unconscious. In the cursory glance he had, the inventor didn’t believe any bones were broken -- the bruise on the head looked to be the most serious injury -- and Marty appeared to be in stable condition. Nevertheless, Doc was nervous. He finally stood from his friend’s side to pace about, both to vent his nervous energy and survey the wreckage.

The train was still groaning and hissing, protesting it’s unnatural state and interrupted journey. Pieces of the time machine -- decidedly futuristic devices that included snippets of circuitboards, wires, transformers, and even a shattered Mr. Fusion -- littered the ground for what looked to be a quarter mile stretch. Doc shuddered as he took it all in, realizing that he couldn’t hide this mess from the locals -- and that it might take a couple weeks to clean up so that absolutely no trace remained.

Why did the train derail? All the research conducted suggested that both the rails and the engine could handle the acceleration rate and top speeds predicted!

Doc hurried over to where the DeLorean had come to a stop -- crumpled and dented in what looked to be beyond contemporary repair. He peered inside the cab for a moment, noticing that the time circuits were dark, and the flux capacitor shattered. The inventor felt both grief-stricken -- his time machine, his pride and joy, didn’t look like it would ever work again -- and relieved. At least it couldn’t fall into the wrong hands in the current condition, like it had with Biff Tannen in the future.

The sound of approaching hoof beats scattered his thoughts. Doc looked up, trying to hone in on the sound, and stepped away from the DeLorean to hurry back to Marty’s side. With any luck, the time machine wouldn’t be overtly noticed by any of the locals. Not with the steam train making all the noise and Marty’s condition to focus on.

The inventor didn’t have very long to wait before the horses and riders came into view, galloping amid clouds of dust. Doc was all but certain that Clara hadn’t summoned them; there was probably a report made to the law authorities that the train had been hijacked. With a speed that surprised him, Doc cobbled together a story to explain the wreckage, as well as how he and Marty had come to be there in the first place.

The first two men on the site were the sheriff, Henry Rogers, and the marshall, James Strickland. Doc wasn’t sure who the other three men behind them were, but he did recognize them from seeing them around town on the streets. The locals drew their animals to a halt at the sight of the wrecked train, expressions of wide-eyed surprise clear on their face.

Yes, it was clear that Clara hadn’t run into them on her way to town and warned them about the accident.

“What in the name of hellfire happened?!” the sheriff exclaimed as he dismounted. “Emmett -- are you all right?”

Doc nodded once. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s Ma--Clint who’s been injured. Clara-- ah, Miss Clayton -- went to fetch the doctor. She happened by right after the accident.”

Marshall Strickland was slower to get off his horse. Doc could see he was immediately suspicious about this scene; he had seen that narrow-eyed expression on his face, as well as those of his decedents, before. “What happened here?” the marshall demanded. “We had a report that the train was hijacked by two men.”

“It was,” Doc said, summoning his hastily compiled story. “Clint and I went after them, and we tried to stop them with a rail vehicle I was working on... but it derailed the train instead of stopping it. The two men took off on foot; they weren’t hurt.”

The marshall’s eyebrows arched up, the expression almost comedic. “You derailed the train?”

“It was an accident,” Doc said, his calm voice surprising even him. The inventor realized, only then, that he was probably in a mild state of shock from the events of the last... well, hour or so. His surroundings had a faint feeling of unreality to them.

Is this really all happening? Or is this a nightmare?

“And I think there are more important things to worry about right now,” Doc concluded quickly. He looked down at the still-unconscious Marty.

Marshall Strickland didn’t seem to share that sentiment. It didn’t entirely surprise the scientist. “That’s a serious offense, Emmett....”

Doc sighed, annoyed by the law enforcer’s one track mind. “I understand,” he said, his voice still coming out eerily calm. “But I think that can wait until later. Clint’s hurt, and I don’t intend to relax until I know that he’s out of danger.”

The marshall stared at him a moment. His face softened -- for a split second. He nodded once, then knelt down next to the inventor’s side to have his own look at the teen. Doc saw him frown as he saw the bump on Marty’s forehead. After a moment he stood and shouted an order to the sheriff, who had drifted in the direction of the wrecked locomotive. Rogers hadn’t noticed or investigated the time machine just yet.

“Henry! Ride into town and fetch a buckboard!”

The bearded man stopped and turned around, clearly uncertain. “Marshall?”

Strickland nodded curtly. “Mr. Eastwood’s wounded. Make haste.”

The sheriff hurried back over to his horse and mounted him quickly. He galloped off just as more people were trickling onto the site, likely drawn by all the noise from the derailment -- or simple curiosity. Doc lowered his head, not feeling up to facing anyone right now, let alone the town gossips.

Fortunately, Marshall Strickland shared a similar sentiment. “I don’t want nobody touching nothing!” he bellowed. “This accident is going to be under investigation; this is all evidence. Beckett, Banning, I want you both to ride out and look around for these outlaws. Did you get a good look at them, Emmett?”

Doc’s mind spun as he tried to decide how to answer that question. The last thing he wanted was someone to get arrested based on a crime they had never committed. “Ah, no, it happened so fast.... They both had masks over their faces.”

Even with such a vague description to go by, the two men set off on their assigned task. The marshall ordered a few others to secure the site, and they immediately spread out in a rough sort of perimeter. Doc was beyond grateful that the accident had waited until they were on the unfinished train line. He hated to think how much history could skew if the main line out of Hill Valley had been shut down for a few days for this clean up and investigation.

Strickland touched Doc’s shoulder as the latter nervously watched a few men approach the train. It wouldn’t be much longer before the DeLorean was sighted. “I’m going to need to talk to you about what happened,” he said.

“Later would be better,” Doc said.

The marshall was surprisingly flexible. “Before the end of the day,” he said. “I’m sure your... what relation is Mr. Eastwood to you, anyway?”

No one had asked Doc that question, yet. The current etiquette would probably consider such a query rude. The marshall, however, was just as blunt as his descendants. Sometimes Doc appreciated that, since few people he had met in this time were so inclined to speak their minds.

Now, however, was not one of those times.

He had to provide an answer that would follow him and Marty for the rest of their stay in the 1880s... which might be considerable. Doc decided to simply tell the truth in this case.

“He’s a close friend of mine; I consider him to be a member of the family. I have no real family around anymore, and neither does he.” In the past, anyway, excepting the McFlys and the Lathrops, Doc added to himself, recalling Marty’s great-great grandparents, and his own mother’s family, which had already settled into Hill Valley.

The marshall accepted the answer with a nod. “I’m sure he will be fine,” he said, indicating Marty. “The doctor should be here in no time.”

Indeed, it wasn’t much longer before Clara reappeared on the back of a galloping horse, clinging tightly to the doctor’s waist. The middle-aged man pulled the stead to a quick stop as he reached the rails, allowing the animal time to catch his breath. He looked slightly disheveled, probably from the quick ride, not even bothering with a hat and coat on this morning. He did, however, have his black bag. Dr. William Peterson wasted little time in passing the horse’s reigns to Clara and dismounting. Doc stood as he approached.

“How is he?” the doctor asked, having apparently been briefed by Clara.

“Unconscious,” Doc said. “He struck his head in the head in the accident.”

The doctor got his first look at Marty -- and the ugly bruise -- and frowned. He knelt down at his side. Doc followed his example, to better converse with him and fill him in. “I don’t think he’s been hurt anywhere else, but I would feel better if you gave him an examination after he’s moved. When I found him he was face down, but I was very cautious in rolling him over. I don’t think there were any spinal injuries.”

The doctor looked up at him, clearly flabbergasted by the words, but didn’t ask. He gently checked Marty over, no doubt making sure that the teen could be safely moved. By the time he finished his very brief examination, a buckboard wagon was rattling up, driven by the sheriff himself.

“Can we move him into the wagon?” Doc asked when the medical doctor didn’t immediately react to it’s arrival.

“I think so,” Dr. Peterson said after a moment. “Very carefully. Will you give me a hand?”

“Of course.”

It took a few minutes to move Marty. He was thoroughly limp, a dead weight, and Peterson didn’t want his head to be jostled all that much. Doc wasn’t quite sure how this was entirely possible; buckboard wagons weren’t known for their smooth carriage. This problem was solved by both the doctor and the inventor climbing into the back with Marty, and the latter cradling the teen’s head on his lap, able to shield it from the worst of the turbulence on the trip.

By the time they reached Doc’s livery stable/home, word had spread and a crowd had already gathered outside the blacksmithing shop. Doc supposed he should have expected something like this -- Hill Valley was still a very small town, and just about everyone had gathered in the downtown area for the showdown earlier that morning. Word of the train hijacking, and then the accident, had undoubtedly reached a great many ears far quicker than a regular Monday morning would have. The inventor recognized many of the faces outside the barn, but Seamus McFly’s stood out the most to him. He looked worried, and the expression remained grave as he watched his future great-great-grandson being carried into the barn.

Dr. Peterson nodded to the large double bed, set apart in the more home-focused area of Doc’s business. “Can we set him there?”

“That would be best,” Doc agreed, thinking of the small cot that Marty had used for his bed during his stay. A real bed would be decidedly more comfortable and practical, though the scientist didn’t give any thought in that moment as to where he would sleep that night.

The two different doctors managed to carry the unconscious Marty safely to the bed, and settle him down on top of the covers. It wasn’t until the teen was out of his hands that Doc noticed a small crowd of people had trickled in after them. It included Clara, of course, looking younger than her years with her hair still spilling down her back, and a few tears on her pretty purple dress, as well as Seamus McFly, and a couple of the men who had been in the saloon during Doc’s all-nighter. The group hovered near the doors, clearly reluctant to intrude on what was a serious matter but worried enough that they wanted to be there. Only Clara stepped further into the barn, her pretty and worried eyes focused on Doc.

Once the teen was settled on the bed, the medical doctor began to gently undress Marty, removing his sarapé, boots, shirt, and pants, until he was clad only in his long underwear. The inventor stood uneasily at the foot of the bed, his gaze darting between Clara and his friend’s unusually still face.

When Marty was down to his long johns, Dr. Peterson began to conduct a quick but thorough examination with the aid of a lantern and a few tools in his black bag. He muttered his findings just loud enough to reach Doc’s ears.

“Right arm, not broken.... Left arm, a bit bruised.... Some scratches on the hands, nothing to be concerned over.... Pulse is strong and steady.... Legs and ankles seem to be fine.... No broken ribs.... Reflexes are normal....”

Doc nodded his head at each comment, the gesture done without any thought. Peterson saved his examination of the head wound for last, the doctor’s mouth twisting and contorting itself into a number of awkward poses as he worked -- very slowly and methodical. Doc glanced up at Clara during this time, noticing again her wide eyes and pale, worried complexion, and realized perhaps he should let the townsfolk what was happening -- so far. Might as well try and curb the rumors before they started. He stepped away from the bedside and walked towards the waiting group.

“The doctor’s having a look at him now,” he told them softly, once he had joined the crowd. For some strange reason, Doc had the urge to keep his voice quiet. As if it would disturb Marty, ridiculous as that was. “I know you’re all concerned -- I am, especially -- but so far he is finding nothing seriously wrong. No broken bones, nothing worse than bruises or scratches.” The scientist paused to look again at Clara. “He’s taken a hard blow to the head, though, and is still unconscious.”

There were a few sighs of relief from his report -- perhaps because the locals thought the scenario was far worse than this. Doc hurried ahead before they could ask any questions.

“I know that you’re all concerned, but I’d like to ask for some privacy right now. There was an accident on the rails, and I’m still a bit shaken up from that... from everything today.” Doc somehow managed a faint, wry smile. “And it’s not even noon yet.”

There were a few murmurs of understanding or apology. As people politely drifted away -- with a few pausing to offer food or drink or their prayers for Doc and “Clint” -- the inventor hastily added, “I will certainly let you know if and when things change, when there’s more news to share.”

Seamus McFly lingered behind until the others -- save for Clara, who had rightly presumed that Doc’s request had not included her -- had left, perhaps feeling more of a connection or concern with Marty’s welfare than the others. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Brown,” he said softly, his tone matching Doc’s. “What was it that happened? There be rumors flyin’ about town.”

The inventor had lived in 1885 Hill Valley long enough to be unfazed by the news. “There was a train accident of sorts,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to read all about it in the next edition of the newspaper. Ma--Clint was thrown from the vehicle.”

“And you?” Seamus asked. His eyes flickered to Doc’s forehead, and the aching lump that had formed there. The blood had stopped trickling out, but the inventor had no doubt that it had left a deceptively serious mess in its wake. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine once my friend is out of danger,” Doc said.

Seamus nodded once and took that as his cue to leave. “Maggie an’ I will be keepin’ him in our prayers,” he said on his way out the door.

“Thank you,” the scientist said. He followed Marty’s ancestor to the door, taking a moment to peer outside at the street.

“Emmett,” Dr. Peterson said suddenly from behind, startling the inventor. He turned around to regard the doctor, who’s face was carefully neutralized. “You’ll be relieved to know that I can’t find any signs of injury to Mr. Eastwood, beyond some bruises and scratches. The wound to his head is ugly, but I think a cold compress can cut the swelling down. His breathing and pulse both seem steady enough.”

“So what, then?” Doc asked. “When will he wake up?”

Dr. Peterson sighed. “It’s difficult to say,” he admitted. “It could be a couple hours. It could be tomorrow. If he hasn’t regained consciousness twenty-four hours from now, let me know.”

“Could he be in a coma?” Doc asked bluntly.

“It’s far too soon to think that,” the doctor assured him. “He has been unconscious little more than an hour, right? Keep an eye on him, and let him sleep this off. He’s young and in good health; I imagine that he will pull through fine. He’s quite fortunate to come away with nothing more than a concussion from the accident.”

Doc nodded once, though as far as he was concerned even that was too much. The doctor headed back to the bedside to collect up his tools, and check on the patient once more. Clara stopped him before he could leave. “Could you look at Emmett’s head?” she asked. “He was injured, too, in the accident.”

Dr. Peterson nodded in agreement, though Doc was less than thrilled by the prospect. “Miss Clayton is right, Emmett,” he said, noticing the expression that crossed the older man’s face. “You promised me yourself to let me take a look at that cut once I examined Mr. Eastwood.”

The inventor grumbled a little, but the look Clara gave him told him he’d better comply. It didn’t take the medical doctor very long to look at the cut, carefully clean it up, and give Doc approximately the same bill of health as he had for Marty -- scratches and bruises, but no serious injuries. He was warned to take it easy the rest of the day, though, and after another quick check on the teen, the doctor left.

Doc looked over to Clara the moment they were alone. She was staring at him, one hand to her mouth, her eyes filled with an expression the inventor couldn’t quite discern. After a moment she made her way across the room to where he was still sitting on the small couch near the foot of the bed. “Are you all right, Emmett?”

The question, in various forms, had been asked of him many times already that morning. But Doc treated the query from Clara as if it was the first time he heard it. “I’ve been better,” he said. “Physically, I have a headache, but it’s nothing that a little Tylenol wouldn’t cure.”

Clara blinked once. “What is Tylenol?”

Doc sighed inwardly, taking a moment to look around his 1885 home. It was starting to sink in a little that he was not going to be going anywhere for a while. Neither would Marty.

Maybe things aren’t as grim as they seem, he thought. Maybe once I look at the DeLorean I’ll find I’ll be able to construct workable repairs on it.

Even if that came to pass -- and Doc knew it was a big if, since the time machine was considerably more damaged now than it had been in the first place -- they would be there for a while. A few months, perhaps. Maybe a year or longer. Doc glanced at Marty on the bed, a part of him suddenly grateful for his currently unaware state. It gave him more time to figure out their situation, and conceive of a way to break the news -- especially if it was not good.

“Emmett?”

Doc blinked, turning his attention back to Clara. She sat down next to him on the couch, waiting, it seemed to the inventor, for something.

“Clara, I... what were you doing out there when the train derailed?” The question only now occurred to him.

“I had an epiphany,” Clara said after a moment. She sounded hesitant, almost embarrassed. “Emmett, I behaved terribly last night. I was... well, I was on the train to San Francisco when I realized how wrong I had been -- and how much I... love you.”

Doc raised his eyebrows, ignorant of the pain this provoked in his cut. “You... what?”

Clara boldly lay her hand on top of his in his lap. “I love you, Emmett Brown,” she said softly.

The inventor’s mind locked up on those three uttered words. So much to digest this morning; how much more could one mind comprehend? “You love me?” he said, astonished.

Clara nodded. “You sound surprised,” she said.

Doc’s mouth had suddenly grown quite dry. He swallowed once before he answered. “I am,” he confessed. “I thought maybe, perhaps, you had feelings for me on some level, but I never dreamed--”

Clara raised her hand and placed her fingers on his lips, quieting his words. “Hush, Emmett. You are a kind, wonderful, caring, intelligent man. Any woman would be fool to brush you aside.”

Doc managed a thin smile. “Then I’ve met many fools in my time.”

“In the future?” Clara asked. The scientist stared at her a moment, almost afraid to answer that question based on her behavior the previous night. The schoolteacher seemed to sense those very thoughts and smiled gently. “I won’t slap you this time, Emmett, I can assure you. I’m dreadfully sorry about that. It was just such a fantastic story to accept.”

Doc looked at her hand resting on his. “What changed your mind?” he asked.

“That you were telling the truth?” At Doc’s nod, Clara blushed a bit. “Well, I didn’t entirely believe your story until I came back here to find you and tell you... well, that I loved you. You were not here, but I saw the small model over there.” She nodded to the tabletop model lying in plain sight that Doc had neglected to dismantle. “One of the small vehicles had the words ‘time machine’ printed clearly on it. And I couldn’t see how you would fabricate a story so elaborate that it would include a model in your home.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, with a little sigh. “I really should’ve taken that thing apart before I left.”

“But if you had, I would not have chanced to see it. It gave me a good idea as to where you were as well, with the little marked signs. How else did you suppose I found you?”

Doc lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt in the accident,” he said.

“Quite so,” Clara agreed. “I had just grabbed onto the back of the wood car when the locomotive put on a burst of speed. Had I not worn my gloves, I’m almost certain I would have lost my grip.” She paused. “What were you doing with the train? How did it involve this time machine you arrived in?”

Doc wasn’t quite sure how much to tell her. He didn’t fear that confiding in Clara would be his undoing -- Great Scott, she loved him! And he loved her, too! -- but there was simply so much to share. Better to just take it one question at a time. “Yes,” he admitted. “The machine needed to achieve a specific speed to induce the temporal displacement -- the time travel.”

“And you’re from a hundred years in the future?” Clara asked. “The year 1985?”

The inventor nodded, thoroughly confused. “How did you know that?”

“You mentioned it last night, when you came to bid your good-bye to me.” She smiled at him again. “A hundred years in the future! I imagine we must seem terribly backwards to you.”

“Not at all,” Doc said immediately. “If anything, I enjoy this time far more. People seem kinder and more accepting -- at least of me.”

“Are they not so in the future?” With another reluctant nod, Clara asked the inevitable. “Why?”

“Well... surely you’ve noticed that I’m not exactly... typical.”

Clara nodded once. “But that is what I love about you, Emmett. I’m not the picture of an ideal woman myself. If I had been, I wouldn’t be in Hill Valley right now. My family thought I was mad to come out here and teach in a frontier schoolhouse. But I knew I would simply go mad if I stayed behind in New Jersey and continued teaching in the girl’s academy. The East is such a stifling environment. But out here, anything seems possible!”

Doc smiled at her breathy and excited tone. He placed his free hand on top of hers, clasping it warmly. “Anything is possible,” he said. “I think that’s true regardless of where or when someone is.”

Clara smiled back at him. Doc leaned forward slowly, unable to help himself. She was so pretty sitting there. The schoolteacher closed her eyes, tilting her face forward--

“Excuse me, Emmett?”

Doc and Clara both jumped at the sound of the gruff voice. The inventor whipped his head around to see Marshall Strickland standing in the doorway. For a moment Doc thought he detected a glint of amusement in the other man’s eye, but in a blink it was gone -- if it had even been there in the first place. “Yes?” the scientist asked as he stood.

“Now that things have settled down, I’d like to speak with you,” the marshall said. “We can do it here -- no need for you to come by the jail. I need to know all the details of the accident. There is going to be an investigation, possibly federal.” Strickland sounded almost apologetic.

Doc glanced over at Marty, who was still out for the count. “All right,” he agreed, even as his mind struggled to weave together a cohesive, realistic cover story. Well, he had gotten almost accustomed to fibbing back here, and as a result thought he could do a convincing job of it.

Clara excused herself then, her composure swiftly regained. The marshall stopped her as she headed for the door.

“Miss Clayton, I’d like to speak with you as well. I understand you were the first to arrive at the scene after the accident?”

Clara hesitated before she responded. “Yes.”

The marshall stared at her a moment, waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he added, “Can you elaborate on that a bit? What did you see? Did you see the two men who hijacked the locomotive?”

Doc held his breath, staring at Clara, wondering how she was going to handle this. She looked at the inventor a moment, meeting his eyes, before turning her gaze back to the marshall. “I didn’t see anything,” she said. “I happened by just after it happened and saw only Emmett and Mr. Eastwood.”

The marshall looked disappointed. He turned his head back to Doc. “Explain to me how you came to be there,” he said. “Every detail.”

Doc shared with him his more detailed improvised story: That he and “Clint” had been in a hurry to meet an acquaintance in the next town over when they noticed the train being hijacked by two men. The inventor had quickly cut ahead and opted to use a “rail vehicle” that he had been working on for a few weeks in the hopes of stopping the train -- but the locomotive derailed, rather than stopping, and the two outlaws escaped. Doc felt rather self satisfied by his little tale, though there were some glaringly large holes of logic in it. Particularly regarding the device he had created to stop the train.

Marshall Strickland listened to the tale without uttering a word. When Doc concluded, the law officer asked a few questions of his own. “What made you believe that the train would use the unfinished track?”

“I didn’t know that,” Doc said. “But that was where I had stored the rail vehicle. It was my intent to push it along to meet the train. Ma-- Clint was in that when the derailment and collision occurred. He was thrown from the vehicle.”

“Then this rail vehicle you created was moving towards the train? It collided with it head on?”

“No, it was at rest. It’s job was to stop the locomotive.”

“Then why was Mr. Eastwood inside it during the collision?”

It was a very good question, but Doc was equally good at providing an immediate answer. “He hadn’t yet had the chance to get out. Things happened quite fast.”

The marshall made a kind of “Hmmmm,” noise. The scientist remained nonplussed, though. So long as he provided a story that sounded feasible, he couldn’t see how the man would accuse him of lying. Thank God he had thought to conceal his face and Marty’s with masks when they had “borrowed” the locomotive.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” the marshall asked after a moment of silence.

“Nothing I can think of -- but if something comes to mind I’ll let you know.”

“Please do. And you will do the same, Miss Clayton?” It was more a statement than a request.

Clara nodded once. “Of course,” she said.

The marshall left, then, though he looked far from satisfied. Doc breathed a sigh of relief at his departure. “I need to go to the crash site,” he said softly when Clara looked over at him.

“I don’t think that is a very wise idea, Emmett,” the schoolteacher said immediately. “The area is sure to be cordoned off as long as this accident is under investigation.”

“Yes -- but I need to collect the remains of the time machine. I shudder to think what might happen if it falls into the wrong hands. The technology is far beyond contemporary understanding.”

Clara blinked once. “Would anyone be able to use it, then?”

Doc shook his head. “I doubt it very much. I looked at it right before the others arrived, and it looks like the heart of the time machine -- the flux capacitor -- was damaged beyond repair. The time machine is not going anywhere.”

Clara stared at him a moment. “Then does that mean you’re trapped here?”

Doc sighed. “For the time being,” he said.

The schoolteacher sucked in a breath. “Oh, Emmett, I’m so very sorry!”

“It’s not a great tragedy,” the scientist hastened to assure her. “At least for me. I’ve been here nine months already. I was set on staying here permanently until I found out that Buford Tannen was going to kill me. And we averted that,” he added quickly, before the teacher could misinterpret the words. “I’m much more concerned with Marty remaining behind. He has family and friends back home -- and a girlfriend. They will notice his absence. And he’s very much a product of his times. I’m not sure how -- or if -- he’ll be able to adapt to a more lengthy stay in this time.”

Clara frowned, looking faintly confused -- but not by the inventor’s words, per se. “You mean to say you will not miss your own time at all? Surely you have family or friends there.”

Doc shook his head once. “No family. I was an only child, and my parents died quite a while ago. And Marty was just about my only friend.” He frowned a little, remembering something important. “And Einstein, of course. Einstein is my dog,” he added for Clara’s benefit. “Marty was going to take care of him, but now....” He was left with an uncomfortable sensation of guilt in his gut.

Clara stepped to his side and put a warm hand on his arm. “I’m sure that your pet will fare all right,” she said gently.

“Maybe,” Doc muttered, a bit more pessimistic. Einie had been left locked in the lab, after all. “But there is a greater problem to consider right now. I don’t belong here, in this time, and neither does Marty. Seamus and Maggie McFly are his great-great-grandparents, you know. My mother is a little girl in town, now. Sarah Lathrop. The risk of interacting in negative ways with history -- our family history, particularly -- is a very real risk.”

Clara simple stared at him. “Perhaps you might start at the beginning,” she suggested.

Doc blinked, not understanding the question. “At the beginning of what? My family history?”

“After a fashion,” Clara said. “I’m more intrigued by this idea of a time machine. How on earth did you make one? And why did you decide to visit this year?”

Doc waited until she had sat down again and made herself comfortable before he launched into that lengthy tale. More than once he saw a look of complete confusion in the schoolteacher’s eye, and was forced to backtrack to fill in what might have seemed like a gaping hole in her understanding. When he had finished, close to an hour had passed and Clara looked to be almost overwhelmed. The inventor left her side a moment as he checked on Marty. There had been no change in the teen’s condition. Doc freshened the damp rag lying on the ugly bruise, then returned to Clara.

“I imagine that there’s a lot to be confused about,” he said.

“Yes,” Clara said honestly. She put a hand to her head. “I don’t believe Jules Verne himself could create such a tale.”

Doc smiled ruefully. “The truth is stranger than fiction,” he said. He looked at the clock again, noticing it was almost noon. The entire morning had already passed by. “You must be getting hungry.”

Clara blinked. “Now that you mention it....” She turned her head to look at the clock the inventor was staring at and frowned. “Goodness! I didn’t realize it was getting so late in the day!”

Doc glanced at Marty again and sighed inwardly. There was nothing he wanted to do more than ask Clara to lunch. But he couldn’t leave his friend alone; what if the teen regained consciousness while he was gone? “You should go home and have something to eat,” he said. “The town is no doubt talking about how you’ve been holed up in here with me all day. Never mind that our interactions have been wholly innocent; they don’t yet know you.”

Clara frowned as she stood once more. “You need to eat, too, Emmett,” she warned, completely ignoring the propriety comment.

“Of course,” Doc said, fibbing. He was far from hungry, and he wasn’t sure how much food he actually had left in his home. “But I can do that here. I can’t leave Marty.”

Clara -- who’s mouth was opened a half inch, as if she was waiting to say something more -- abruptly closed her lips, her eyes darting to the bed. She nodded once, not arguing about the matter. “I’ll bring you something, then,” she promised, making her way to the door. “There’s no need for you to starve.”

“You don’t need to do that--”

“Nonsense -- I want to.” Clara’s tone and face softened as she looked at him, three steps away from the door. “I love you, Emmett Brown.”

Doc couldn’t keep the smile from blossoming across his face at the words. “And I love you, Clara Clayton,” he said softly.

The returned phrase brought a glow to Clara’s own face. Her cheeks grew rosy in color and dimpled in a warm smile. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said, turning to leave the shop.

Doc kept himself deliberately busy in the six or so hours between Clara’s departure and his illicit rendevouz with her. One activity that he took care of immediately was dismantling the tabletop model, successfully erasing any evidence of it from his home. He ventured a few looks outside, every time he heard vehicles or horses pass the stable, hoping to see the sheriff or marshall or some of the other men that he had noticed at the crash site coming back into town. And near eleven, when it was apparent that Marty was more likely than not going to remain unconscious for the next several hours, he wrote a very brief note to the teen in case he should chance to waken: “Do not move -- I will be back shortly.” Knowing Marty, that advice would be ignored, but it was the best he could do, short of having someone keep an eye on him. And that would be much more of a bother.

Doc frowned as he set the note down at the bedside. Marty was curled up on his side, facing him, and the bruise looked uglier than ever. Efforts to keep something cool on it were mixed; every time the teen shifted in his sleep-of-the-dead, it knocked the compress off the wound. The inventor once more picked up the washcloth, lying on the covers near Marty’s hand, soaked it in the water, wrung it out, and placed it back on the teen’s forehead. Marty grimaced a bit at the touch of the cool cloth, then his expression once more slackened into the semi-peaceful, very still one that told Doc his friend was still quite far off.

His mind couldn’t help worrying over the matter as he hitched Newton to his buckboard wagon, and headed for Clara’s cabin. With transportation being the way it was now -- no small feat, in short, and slow -- he arrived a few minutes past the witching hour. Clara was ready and waiting; she walked out to meet him before he could dismount from the wagon, a dark shadow on the moonlit landscape around them. She had taken his earlier request to heart, her dress black with a high neckline and long sleeves, and a dark knitted scarf thrown over her naturally dark hair. For his part, Doc had found the darkest clothes in his wardrobe, and bundled his white hair -- which stood out like an beacon on nights like this, catching the moonlight all too easily -- under a dark brown hat. He wore gloves on his hands, which aided in keeping them warm on this late summer night, and would protect his skin from being sliced on any sharp metal edges of the wreckage. Clara had nothing on her hands, and Doc took a moment to impart his advice to her so she could grab a set before they set off for the wreckage site.

They didn’t say a word on the drive, the only sound the squeak of the wagon axles and the steady clomping of Newton’s hoofs. This was not by accident; the inventor had advised quiet on the trip, the better to hear things around them. Under his seat he had brought along his modified Winchester -- not for protection against any person as much as the wild animals that roamed the outskirts of Hill Valley at this time. Fortunately, he heard and saw nothing particularly alarming.

Near the site, Doc pulled his horse to a stop. “I’m going to walk ahead, to see if the coast is clear,” he said in a whisper. “I want you to wait here with Newton, and if I don’t come back in half an hour, drive back to your cabin. My rifle is under the seat.”

Clara frowned, the expression clearly visible. “You expect me to abandon you?”

“No -- I expect to come back. This is simply a precaution that should protect you. I don’t want you to get into trouble. You haven’t even taught your first class yet, after all.”

Clara continued to look slightly unhappy. Doc gave her a smile as he climbed down. “I expect to be back in about ten minutes,” he said. The schoolteacher bobbed her head in a nod.

Doc walked briskly to the crash site, his eyes darting back and forth to constantly survey the surroundings. He was surrounded by quiet, and could detect no voices or any other sound of life. As he grew within sight of the rails, he slowed, moving parallel to the line a couple dozen feet away. When he saw the dark outline of the steam locomotive, he stopped, straining his ears for sound and his eyes for movement. There was nothing. It seemed deserted.

Of course, it could be under hidden surveillance.

Doc took a deep breath, then walked over to the wreckage. His nerves were decidedly on edge He made it all the way to the train -- and nothing happened. No cry split the thick silence, and there was absolutely no sign that there was anyone lingering around nearby. Just to make sure, the inventor walked over to the sad remains of his time machine and collected the Mr. Fusion unit that had broken off. He tucked it under his arm and walked back to where Clara was anxiously waiting. No one stopped him.

“It’s clear,” he murmured to the schoolteacher as he pulled himself back into the buckboard seat, dumping the remains of the fusion generator into the back. “Grab the smaller pieces first, the ones that will be easy to carry. Hopefully we can get the time machine itself another time; I don’t think we can manage it this evening.”

“It won’t concern you that it’s left out?” Clara asked as Doc took the reins from her hand and urged the horse forward.

“Not as much as the other devices. I have an idea, anyway....”

Clara looked at him curiously, but he didn’t elaborate at the moment.

Doc wanted to spend as little time as possible at the site, collecting the parts. He expected it might take an hour, possibly two, between the darkness and Clara’s possible confusion. The schoolteacher surprised him, however. Though she was baffled more than once whether or not something belonged to the DeLorean or the train -- the inventor wanted to leave behind the train wreckage -- she had a good sense of what belonged and what did not. In an hour, most of the DeLorean’s easily moved parts were piled on the back of the now-sagging buckboard. The DeLorean itself would require another trip to retrieve it, and that plan couldn’t be put into motion until at least the following day. Doc did take the time to remove the flux capacitor and the time circuits from the inside of the car, however; he didn’t want people getting a good look at those specific devices, and the labels on them.

No one came by while they were working. Nevertheless, Doc made sure to tuck in a couple horse blankets over the parts on the back -- just in case. By the time he dropped Clara off at her cabin, the night was more than half over. He dismounted the wagon to help her down, and walked her to the door.

“I must say, this has been one of the most unique outings I’ve ever been on,” she said. “You really know how to entertain a woman.”

Doc almost felt embarrassed, though her tone was light and cheerful. “I did warn you ahead of time....”

“Yes, you did. And the danger is what made it so exciting.” The scientist saw the flash of her teeth as she smiled widely. A moment later it disappeared, leaving her face little more than vague shadows in the awning above her porch. “I’ll come by tomorrow, Emmett -- if that’s all right with you,” she added hastily.

Doc smiled. “I’m looking forward to it already.”

They stood for a moment, in a silence that felt weighty. Doc could feel his skin prickling all over, from anxiety more than anything else. He knew that something still needed to be said -- or done -- before he could leave. But why did he suddenly feel paralyzed and unable to move? Why did he have to feel so awkward and... well, inexperienced... around Clara? It was ridiculous; he was sixty-six years old, now, and--

Clara stepped close to him and kissed him gently on the mouth. Doc didn’t react immediately, his mind simply frozen from both shock and pleasure. Clara leaned back after a moment. “Emmett? Are you all right?” Her voice was a bit confused and nervous. “I--I didn’t mean to be so bold. I hope I didn’t offend you or--”

Doc wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, kissing her back as his answer.

How long their good-bye went on, the scientist was not able to guess. Eventually the sound of a animal’s howl broke the mood -- and reminded Doc of the late hour. He pulled away from Clara, reluctantly, after giving her a final squeeze. “I need to go back, now.”

“Of course,” Clara said, her own reluctance shining through in her voice. “Good night, Emmett.”

A final kiss, and she vanished inside her house. Doc lingered for just a moment on the porch, pleasantly tingling from head to toe, then turned away and headed back to Newton and the wagon. The horse nickered softly as the inventor climbed into the seat, as if he was complaining about the long delay. Doc grinned as he started for his place, his mind recapping the sweet moments on the porch, elated.

“Who would’ve thought?” he murmured softly, half to the horse, half to himself. “I think I have what Marty would call a girlfriend!”

It was just a matter of time, now.

Doc sat in the workshop area of his home, staring at the glowing coals in the forge and thinking hard. Behind him, back in the more homey area of the stable, Marty was sleeping away most of the afternoon. Clara had departed after lunch to take care of the last minute preparations for the first day of school, and business had slackened a bit. Or, rather, Doc was putting off some of the work. Marty wasn’t out of it enough that he could ignore the clanging of the anvil required when shaping horse shoes, nails, parts, anything of the sort. For the first time in a couple days, Doc was left alone, and not spending the bulk of his time worrying about his friend; Marty looked like he was going to be okay.

However, he was beginning to worry about what he was going to have to tell the teen. Marty was clearly getting suspicious about the DeLorean’s condition, and Doc’s best efforts to conceal the ugly truth from him were not going to be acceptable much longer. Nor could Doc lie to himself that hiding the truth of the matter was best for Marty. Yes, dumping it down on him when he had barely awakened from his mini-coma was not a wise or kind idea. But he was out of danger for the most part now. There really was nothing more to be gained for verbal vagueness.

The scientist leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands as he watched the forge. He wasn’t expecting that the DeLorean would ever travel through time again. He needed to figure out what to do with the parts of the car once he retrieved it, hopefully tomorrow; they couldn’t be left lying around in a landfill. He was already uncomfortably aware that his presence in the past, along with Marty’s presence in the past -- and even Clara’s continuing life in the past -- could considerably endanger the future. Funny how that had never come up before, when he had intended to settle down in the old west permanently, and told Marty to leave him there. But Doc didn’t believe he had a choice at the moment when he had written the letter, and he didn’t want to have Marty risk not returning home on his account.

Of course, if the kid had gone back home in the first place, from 1955, Doc knew he wouldn’t still be alive. Still, Marty wouldn’t necessarily know that -- although even the inventor knew that was faulty reasoning. The teen probably wouldn’t have be home more than five minutes before rushing off to look up Doc in the history books, and discovering the bad news about his demise. And then be tempted to go back and sort it out.

There’s got to be a way out of here, Doc mused, tapping his finger against his chin. Maybe a time machine from the 1980s can’t be repaired with 1880s technology -- but perhaps a time machine could be created with 1880s technology. After all, the key is really the 1.21 jiggowatts of electricity. If I can find some way to generate that kind of power here, and an equally stable vehicle that can achieve eighty-eight, it could work....

And then what? He could send Marty back to the future -- but a project involving that kind of dedication and experimentation could take years. By that time the three people who did not belong in the past could create any number of havoc, history-changing events.

One problem at a time, Emmett, Doc told himself, determined to not become overwhelmed by it all. He couldn’t worry about what every interaction with this time period may do to ones down the line; not if he wanted to keep any shred of sanity. The scientist deliberately, with effort, tore his thoughts away from that potential pathway of neurosis and concentrated on the more pressing, immediate matter: breaking the truth of the matter to Marty.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, Doc decided, casting a slightly uneasy look over his shoulder to the lump on the bed.

Marty’s headache wasn’t as bad when he woke up the next morning -- of course, he had spent most of the previous day sleeping. It seemed to be the only thing he could do that helped quell the ache in his skull -- and it wasn’t as if trying to speak to Doc was very productive at all. The inventor seemed more concerned with feeding him lines than anything else, and Marty was sick of the whole charade. But at a certain point, after almost twenty-four hours of intermittent sleep and such, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He opened his eyes, finally, feeling warm beams of sunlight on his face, and looked around.

The place, from what he could tell, was empty.

Marty sat up slowly. He felt lightheaded for a moment, the ache in his head increasing before it leveled out and faded. Pleased by that, he pushed aside the bedding and cautiously swung his legs over the side of the bed. Another look around, but his first impression was not in error; Doc didn’t seem to be around at the moment.

“Doc?” he tried, just in case.

The snorting of a horse nearby was his only answer.

Marty stood slowly, anxious not to push things too far. He felt a little shaky and wobbly on his feet -- but he’d been lying in bed for, what, three days? Four? It was more than a little fuzzy for him. And aside from the tea that Doc had shoved on him the day before, he hadn’t had anything to eat since Sunday night’s campfire dinner.

Food. He suddenly felt so ravenous he was queasy. Marty took a step away from the bed, wondering if Doc had left any snacks out. He had this faint recollection that the inventor had an automatic breakfast cooking thing set up somewhere across the room. He headed in that general direction and found what looked like a piece of cold, half burned toast, and a single piece of bacon left behind. Marty took the toast, not caring that it resembled a fossil, and took a crunchy bite.

There was no warning prior to Doc’s entrance; one minute he was not in the stable, and the next he was striding across the floor, a couple packages bundled under one arm. He glanced over at the bed where Marty had been minutes before, then skidded to such a quick stop he nearly dropped the items in his hand.

“Yo, Doc,” Marty said, heading off the inventor’s confusion before it could fully set in. “Over here.”

Doc jumped and spun around at the sound of his voice, the packages finally working their way loose of his grasp and tumbling to the earthen floor. He stared at the teen a moment, bug-eyed, before the sight of him seemed to sink in. “Great Scott, Marty -- what are you doing out of bed?”

“I was hungry -- and calm down, I’m not gonna pass out or anything.”

Doc was staring at him with one of his scrutinizing gazes, not bothering to be subtle with his concern. He frowned faintly at Marty’s words. “You’re still pale,” he said.

“Yeah, probably because I haven’t had anything to eat since Sunday!” The teen felt inexplicably cranky. Not knowing what the hell was going on could do that to a person -- but at the moment, he had other things on his mind than the truth. “There’s got to be something here better than this cold toast.”

Doc’s eyes narrowed as he took in the said food, clutched in Marty’s hand. “There is,” he said. “Why don’t you get back in bed and I’ll make something.”

“I’ve been in that bed way too much,” Marty said. “I’d rather avoid it for a while.”

“How’s your head?”

“It’s fine, Doc.” Marty couldn’t keep the edge from his voice, and the scientist flinched a bit. He changed the subject to another pressing concern. “You don’t have a shower here, do you?”

“Just the tub.” Doc tilted his head in the direction of the device. “Did you want to use that?”

Marty hadn’t taken a bath since he was a kid -- but beggers couldn’t be choosers. “Well, I feel grimy all over. I’d like to use something and get out of this, uh, underwear,” he added, only then really noticing what he was wearing. Someone must’ve stripped his cowboy clothes off during his spell of unconsciousness.

“I’ll get the pump started, then. It’s a little noisy, but far less time consuming than doing it all by hand. Oh, and I got you some new clothes,” Doc added, handing him the bundled packages that he had retrieved from the ground.

“Does that mean we’re gonna be here for a while?” Marty asked, not bothering to open the parcels just yet.

Doc stared at him a moment. then sighed. “Sit down, Marty,” he said, his tone gentle. “We need to talk.”

Marty swallowed hard, suddenly feeling sick. Anytime someone began a conversation with “we need to talk,” bad things would always happen. No one ever “needed” to talk when the news was good. He sat down on the edge of the pale pink couch nearby, bracing one hand on the arm of the furniture. “What’s up?” he asked lightly.

Doc pulled up a stool and sat down across from him, leaning forward until no more than a foot separated their faces. “You know that the DeLorean sustained some damage when it went off the tracks,” he said, his voice eerily calm.

“Yeah, you said something about that earlier.” Now came the big question. “How much damage, Doc?”

“Well, the cowcatcher crushed the rear deck of the machine, destroying the Mr. Fusion, the circuits mounted on the back of the car, and shorting out a number of wires. The flux capacitor shattered from the turbulence, and the time circuits--”

Doc was getting into Science Lecture Mode. It was too much for Marty at the moment. “So, what’s this all mean? How long is this gonna take to fix?”

“Well....” Doc broke the eye contact for a moment to stare at the floor, and then at his fingers, braced together at the fingertips to create a triangle with his hands. “What it means,” he began, addressing the floor, and then looking up, “is that you’re stuck here. As am I.”

The words didn’t make sense to Marty’s ears. “Stuck here?” Marty repeated. “You mean until you repair the DeLorean, right?”

Doc cleared his throat, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else but the present moment. “No,” he said softly, his eyes fully focused on Marty’s now. “I can’t repair it with the contemporary technology. We’re both stuck here, Marty, without a working time machine.”

Marty was suddenly glad his stomach was empty. If there had been anything more than that bite of cold toast, he thought he would’ve lost it right then. As it was he felt dizzy, faint, and had to lean back in the couch.

“But,” Doc added, quickly, “I’ll have you know that I’m already working on something that should get us back to the future. It may take a while to build... a few years... but I will get you -- us -- home eventually. I promise.”

The inventor sounded completely confident in his vow, but Marty didn’t care. His brain was still stuck on the words a minute before. “What it means is that you’re stuck here.... We’re both stuck here, Marty, without a working time machine.”

“No,” the teen murmured, shaking his head as much as he could stomach with the still-present ache in it. “No, Doc, c’mon. Be serious. I can’t be here for God knows how long! What about my family back home? My life? Jennifer?”

Doc leaned forward. Marty’s mouth snapped shut, cutting off the rising volume of the words; it might be a bad thing if someone happened by and heard him shouting like that. The inventor stared at him, his face grave. “I’m very sorry, Marty,” he said sincerely. “I don’t like it any more than you do. The repercussions this could have on history alone are frightening. But you won’t be left to fend for yourself out here,” he added, addressing an issue Marty hadn’t even considered. “You can stay with me; the town already thinks we’re family in some capacity. I’ll take care of you; it’s the least I can do.”

Marty didn’t care if Doc was gonna throw him out on the street with no more than the current clothes on his back. That he wouldn’t have to worry about food, shelter, and finding a job in this time was the absolute last thing on his mind. “But my life’s in 1985, not 1885, Doc!” he said. The back of his throat burned with the threat of tears; the truth was beginning to sink in, as much as he wanted to fight against it. “I don’t want to spend a few years living in the old west -- this time period sucks! And, Jesus, my family is going to miss me--”

“Marty,” the inventor interrupted, something in his tone freezing the rest of the teen’s tirade short of his lips. Doc’s put his hand on Marty’s shoulder and smiled very faintly -- the expression not one of mocking or pleasure, but of confidence. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it -- and with your help, I think we’ll come to it sooner than later.”

Marty recalled how long it had taken Doc to come to the DeLorean’s “bridge” and blanched even more. “Oh, God, Doc, I can’t wait thirty years--”

“It will not take thirty years,” Doc said flatly. “It will take more than thirty days, yes, and I need to find a valid, realistic source of power to fuel both the flux capacitor and the time machine’s acceleration -- but I do not foresee this taking quite the same amount of time as the first machine did. I have a much clearer idea now on what I need and how to go about achieving it. And there will be two of us working on the new machine, not just me going at it alone. It’s too dangerous for us to remain here the rest of our natural lives. I won’t let that happen. If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.”

“Are you sure that you can’t get the DeLorean fixed?” Marty asked, even though he knew it was fairly pointless. If it was possible, Doc would definitely know. “You’re positive that it’s trashed?”

“Oh, yes. The technology doesn’t exist to repair it. I had enough problems before with the damage the bolt of lightning did to the car. Having a train basically crush half of the time machine is something I am not prepared to deal with. Not with the tools and means that 1885 offers. It would be a challenge enough in 1985.”

Marty sighed, letting his head fall back on the couch, his gaze on the overhead ceiling beams. His headache, which had been almost gone when he had woken that morning, began to creep back on him and he closed his eyes, wishing that he was anywhere -- well, anywhen -- else but here.

He heard the squeak of the stool as Doc stood. “I’ll get the bath run for you,” he said softly. “And when you get out I’ll have something hot cooked to eat. You’ll be all right, Marty.”

No, I won’t, Marty thought, willing with every nerve in his body that this would turn out to be some nasty nightmare. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. He just could not spend the next God knew how many years stuck in the past. In the freakin’ wild west! It had to be some kind of cosmic mistake or joke!

My family... Jennifer... my friends... my band... my music... my life! It can’t be on pause for that long! No way!

The sound of the water pump that Doc suddenly activated nearly sent the teen through the roof. The sound was just as loud and deafening as his “refrigerator” that Marty had seen demonstrated the previous week. The teen couldn’t resist opening his eyes and turning his head to watch the inventor as he stood next to the tub. Water was gushing in fast, and in just a couple minutes Doc was shutting off the tap, rendering a most piercing metal-on-metal noise that bothered the horses in their stalls nearby. They whinnied softly, stomping their feet.

“The water is heated with the help from a steam boiler that works to operate the refrigerator,” Doc announced as he stepped away from the tub, rolling his shirtsleeves back down. “Getting a perfect combination of water temperature to your tastes may be a bit tricky, but most people still have to heat their water by the bucket on a stove top now.”

“Lucky them,” Marty said flatly, getting up from the couch. He dragged with him the packages of clothes Doc had given him.

The scientist quickly pointed out where the towels and soap were at, then drew the privacy curtain he had rigged up around the bath area. Marty didn’t waste much time in getting into the water. It could’ve been warmer, but it also could’ve been worse. The soap that Doc used was like nothing back home -- and there was simply no shampoo anywhere. Apparently people used bar soap in their hair or something here.

After he had finished scrubbing and washing the dust, sweat, and grime off his body from the last week, he lingered in the tub, craving the little bit of solitude and privacy it provided. Doc was busy; he could hear him hammering something on that anvil again. Marty sank down in the water until it touched his chin, the high sides of the tub concealing almost everything from view. But even if he closed his eyes, he couldn’t pretend he was home, or anywhere near it. Things felt, smelled, and even tasted so unfamiliar here.

His lower lip shook as a parade of images ran through his head. All the things he would miss, big and small -- everything from his girlfriend; the new truck he hadn’t even had a chance to try, yet; fast food; Diet Pepsi; MTV; electric guitars; hell, electricity. He had barely survived a week in 1885; how could he survive a month? A year? A decade?

As isolated as he was, Marty couldn’t stand it anymore; Doc wouldn’t be able to hear him with that hammer clanging, anyway. He gave into the burning lump at the back of his throat, muffling his quiet sobs as best he could, allowing the full weight of his situation to crash down on him.

He was stuck here. For quite a long while. What the hell was he going to do?