Marty McFly opened his eyes as the sound of thunder crackled through the air. His heart was already racing as he sat up, thoroughly disoriented for a moment. Thick darkness surrounded him, broken only by the darker shadows of objects and furniture. The thunder rumbled and echoed through the air, not quite fading entirely before a new bolt lit up his surroundings for a moment -- and solved some of the puzzle for Marty as to his current whereabouts.

“Shit,” he murmured, rubbing his forehead. His skin felt damp and clammy; the air around him was sticky and warm. Small wonder that there was a storm going on now. It had been unusually hot and muggy all week; something like this had to be inevitable.

The thunder from the latest bolt reached his eardrums a moment later, shaking the ground underneath him. Marty got up and headed to one of the open windows across the room, bumping into furniture more than once. It still amazed him how positively dark it could get in a place like this. Of course, when streetlights weren’t around -- hell, electric lights were still years away, at least in Hill Valley -- what did he expect?

Lightning once more lit up the landscape as Marty reached the window. The seventeen-year-old let out a low whistle, seeing more spectacular bolts streaking across the far horizon, too distant to be heard. He wasn’t at the window more than a minute before he heard a sort of roar begin, and felt a misty, cooling breeze on his face.

Christ, it’s pouring!

Indeed, in the span of ten seconds the air went from dry to saturated, rain pounding so hard on the roof that the sound almost drowned out the thunder. Marty stood at the window for a minute, dazed, before he realized he’d better close all the open windows.

“Doc?” he called out, certain his friend had to be awake from all the racket. “Hey, Doc, can you get a light?”

There was no response from the scientist. Marty swore softly under his breath, annoyed, then fumbled his way back to his cot, recalling that there was an oil lamp and box of matches in that vicinity. Lightning was kind enough to flash a couple times to give him a clearer idea on his immediate surroundings, though the subsequent cannon-like echoes of thunder almost made it not worth it.

A few minutes more of feeling his way around with the matches, and Marty had one of the lamps lit. Already growing more adapt with the current technology, he turned the wick as far up as it could go, trying to squeeze out as much illumination as possible, and held it up to check on Doc.

But the large double bed across the room was empty. The bedding was mussed, however, the blankets tossed aside as if Doc had been there only moments before, and then left quite suddenly.

Where the hell--

The thought remained incomplete as Doc suddenly burst into the barn, pulling with him two of his horses -- Newton and Archemedes. Gaileo was already in his stall, nickering uneasily. Newton and Archie were more than a little skittish, tossing their heads and snorting, trying to break free of their reins. “Marty,” Doc barked, spotting the teen immediately. “Shut the windows, will you? I’ve got to get the horses in their stalls.”

“Uh, okay....” Marty set the lamp down and hurried around the livery stable, slamming shut all open windows in a fruitless effort to keep things dry inside. Fruitless in that the ceiling above had about a zillion cracks, and he could both hear and feel the rainwater dripping inside already.

“Ever think about replacing your roof, Doc?” he called out.

The scientist merely grunted in response. From the sounds of it, he was having a bit of a struggle with getting the horses in their indoor homes. Once all the windows were closed -- just in time, since the wind had picked up and was now merrily blowing the sheets of rain inside -- Marty wandered over to see if he could be of any help. He kind of doubted it. He could ride a horse, but that was about it; he lacked understanding of the animals, and they seemed to know this. Marty and the animals had reached a somewhat uneasy truce -- they didn’t try to buck him off when he rode, and generally followed his direction -- but if the horses were ever in distress or excited, Doc was the one who could calm them down and handle it without getting trampled to death.

“Need help there?” he asked after a moment, halting several feet away.

“I’ve got it under control,” Doc said, sounding distracted.

Indeed, a couple minutes later he had both animals safely in their stalls. Just in time. He had hardly latched Newton in before another blast of lighting and thunder sent the animal whinnying uneasily. Doc sighed, giving the horse a friendly pat on the nose before turning around and finally closing the main doors, still hanging ajar, against the storm. Marty watched as he turned and walked back to the wooden floor, his nightshirt streaked with rainwater from the start of the deluge -- and maybe the multiple leaks in the ceiling above, which offered about as much protection from the elements as a sieve.

“What are we supposed to do about this?” he had to ask his friend, gesturing to the gaps and holes above.

“I reinforced the ceiling above the bed last winter,” Doc said. “Move your cot there and you should remain fairly dry.”

Marty frowned, folding his arms across his chest as Doc walked past him, heading for the so-called drier part of the barn. “Is this how you spent the entire winter last year? Soaking every time it rained?”

“I had a great many more things on my mind at that time,” Doc said, opening his wardrobe and rummaging around inside. “Re-roofing a place that had been all but abandoned by the previous owner was not my first priority.”

“It would’ve been mine,” Marty muttered, moving out of the way of a persistent drip -- only to be hit by another that happened to slide down the back of his neck, into the collar of the long underwear he wore for PJs. He just couldn’t quite bring himself to use a nightshirt like Doc. They were a bit too girlie and frilly for his tastes, never mind they were made expressly for men now. Even on hot nights like these, which forced him to roll back the long sleeves and legs of the cotton underwear, he resisted the lighter attire. Marty guessed there were worse places to be than the old west, fashion-wise. He hated to think how he would’ve survived if he had to wear powdered wigs and lace, like people did in the 1700s, or tights, like the middle ages.

Doc paused in his rummaging to turn and look at Marty. He looked grumpy, and the teen couldn’t blame him, really. If he’d had to charge outside in this mess to drag in horses and get drenched in the process, he would be more than a little pissy himself. Being woken up to do it all probably didn’t help matters much, either. “If you’re wet, move your bed and change clothes,” he said. “It’s just rainwater. Unlike the rain at home, this is fairly pure and devoid of any tainting chemicals whatsoever.”

“Oh, lucky us,” Marty said under his breath. He stomped over to where his cot was, picked it up, and moved it into the protected vicinity, trying to ignore the cascade of drops coming down through the overhead gaps. In spite of his admittedly late efforts, the cot was pretty damp by the time he finished the job, having already recieved a good soaking.

“Perfect,” Marty murmured, annoyed, as he pulled the blankets off the wood-and-fabric frame. He let them drop into an untidy heap to the floor, then looked at Doc, who was shaking out a fresh nightshirt from the closet. “Where are the spare blankets?”

“Those were the spare blankets,” Doc said. “If you let them sit there like that, they’ll never dry properly.”

Marty made a face, trying very hard not to whine. “Then what am I supposed to sleep on, now?”

Doc pointed to the pale pink couch nearby. “I think it’s dry over there,” he said.

Marty grabbed his (damp) pillow off the cot and strode over there, simmering a little at all this inconvenience. Fortunately for Doc, the inventor was correct in that the area was dry. Still, Marty was feeling more than a little soggy himself as he lay on the cushions and stared up at the dim ceiling, scowling faintly at the world in general. Although he had actually been sleeping -- for a change -- when the storm had arrived, he was now more than wide awake. It shouldn’t have surprised him in the least, considering the storm and his currently wet state.

But even if those factors had been removed, he still would have found sleep difficult to achieve. Ever since Doc had told him that he was pretty much stuck here until a new time machine could be built, he had been having bouts of insomnia. Long after Doc would retire -- and that was saying something, since the scientist was possessed with a seemingly boundless supply of energy that allowed him to rise near dawn and go to bed quite late more nights than not -- Marty would still be lying in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, wishing himself to be anywhere but here. He wasn’t in denial -- he knew he was pretty screwed -- but he was finding it hard to deal with the circumstances life had thrown at him and move forward.

Even if he wanted to pretend that the current reality wasn’t happening to him, seeing the DeLorean had been the clincher. About a week and a half ago Doc had finally gone out to the wreckage site to take it home, bringing Marty with him. The headaches from the concussion the teen had sustained in the accident were finally coming less frequently, and he had wanted a chance to see the place where his life had derailed with the train. Part of him, he had to admit, was hoping maybe it would jog his memory, which still had a very large blank spot from the moment he had left town with Doc to hijack the train, until the moment he woke more than a day later. Unfortunately, that didn’t change at all when they had arrived with the wagon to tow the car back. He didn’t have a twinge of recollection, not even the faintest sensation of deja vu. Instead, Marty was aghast when he saw the condition of the time machine.

“Jesus,” he said, walking around the perimeter of the car. “The train practically gutted it!”

“Yes,” Doc had agreed, with absolutely no argument. “You’re lucky you were thrown free, and that the car wasn’t crushed at the front. I think you can gather why fixing this one up to return home is pretty much a lost cause.” He handed Marty the set of car keys and nodded to the vehicle. “Why don’t you open it up and have a look?”

Marty really didn’t want to do that -- he knew it would depress him -- but he accepted the chore. Inside, the time circuits and flux capacitor were both missing, gaping holes and loose wires marking their former locations. (Doc had removed them as soon as he could, while Marty had still been unconscious from the accident.) Junk that had been securely mounted in the car before now hung loosely. Behind the seats was a mixture of broken electronics, shards of glass, the clothes of his from the future, and the ever-resilient hoverboard, which still apparently worked. The ceiling of the car was buckled and bent; Marty was amazed the doors could open, still.

“Why did it go off the tracks?” he wanted to know, emerging from the car.

Doc had been a few feet away, scouting the ground for parts no doubt. He looked up at the question and shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said. “The tracks appear to be straight and tight, but it could be something as simple as a rock at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the wheels of the DeLorean were not grooved properly. Or the burst of speed was too much for a steam locomotive.”

Marty didn’t like the lack of an answer. It made him feel slightly ill. Because if Doc didn’t know why things had gone wrong, something like this could easily happen again -- even if they would not be repeating the same experiment.

It had taken the better part of the day to get the car towed back to Doc’s place, and stowed in an empty horse stall under some blankets. Doc still didn’t seem too sure about what he was going to do with the remains, but Marty knew he’d figure something out.

He’d better figure something out on how we’re gonna get home! he thought, frowning as another clap of thunder disturbed the air. The lamplight disappeared a moment later, and he heard the bedsprings shift. Doc had apparently finished changing and was fortunate enough to have both a dry bed and the ability to attempt sleep.

Marty sighed and shifted, the couch lumpy and uncomfortable -- and realized then that, on top of everything else, he had to use the bathroom. Or, in 1885-speak, the outhouse, privy, what have you. It was located outside, naturally, perhaps two dozen feet from the back of the building. Which would be extremely uncomfortable to navigate in the current weather; he would come back soaked to the core.

Marty closed his eyes, grimacing. Reason #5 why this time period sucks, he thought. No indoor restrooms.

It was simply one of many, many things he hated here. Every day brought a new annoyance or inconvenience to his attention. Having to go outside every time you needed to use the bathroom was definitely in the top ten. Others included the lack of clean, clear water -- everything here came from wells, and was tinged some dirt-colored shade; the lack of electricity; the lack of transportation that wasn’t a horse or a train. And then there was lack of washing machines and dishwashers. Here, everything relating to cleaning had to be done by hand, which made it both time consuming and yielded at-times questionable results. Just earlier in the week, Doc had recruited Clara for her help in teaching Marty how to launder his clothes with just soap and a metallic washing board.

“It’s not as difficult as you might think,” the schoolteacher explained cheerfully as she knelt before the tub of water, a shirt of Marty’s in one hand, and the bar of soap in the other. “Simply soak the garment, brace it against the washboard as you scrub it vigorously with the soap--” She demonstrated, taking almost a minute to do the chore. “--Rinse it, wring it out, and then hang to dry.”

Marty had tried, but laundry was never his strong suit. His mother had banned him from doing the chore at home, after he had tried it once and tinted all of his whites a sickly pink color. By the time he finished washing the few articles he owned, his arms ached all the way into his shoulders, and his fingers were scaled from the hot water and stinging from the strong chemicals in the soap. He had also soaked the clothes on his back in the process, creating the need to change because he was doing the wash. He didn’t enjoy the irony.

Doc, Marty had noticed with more than a little envy, seemed to have no problem washing his own clothes, and even seemed to be working on the world’s first washing machine. The teen wished him well on that project, knowing that he would benefit equally from it.

Bathing, in general, was also problematic. Doc had rigged a kind of way to heat up water, but the result wasn’t easy to control; sometimes it would be icy, sometimes it would be scalding. The water pressure was also pretty shoddy with the showerhead the inventor had created, making the concept of a quick shower a dream. At home, Marty could be showered and changed in about ten minutes. Here, it took ten minutes to fill the tub, probably ten minutes to clean up, and then maybe ten minutes to drain the sucker and get dressed again. And the clothes here weren’t as comfortable as the ones back home, especially on hot days. There were more layers with just the underwear alone.

He guessed he should be glad Doc even had a bath, though; the bath house down the street was testament that many homes were without. And Marty knew he definitely preferred Doc’s private tub to one that was in full view of a public street and manned by attendants.

Shaving, too, was something of a chore -- and a dangerous one at that. Marty wasn’t the world’s most hairiest person -- back home he really only needed to shave maybe every other day, if that. But it was something he did need to do at some point, since he really wasn’t into the idea of a beard or mustache. Electric razors were, of course, a convenience of the future. And disposable razors with nice, plastic safety blades were not around yet either. The only thing available now were large straight razors, which required some deft maneuvering, shaving cream, and a mirror. Doc had tried to show him how to shave during his first full week following the accident, and Marty had practically slit his throat by mistake. Even now, about a week later, his face had a number of small nicks and cuts on them, which didn’t appreciate having the blade dragged over them every couple days. Or the lather that they had now; the first brand that he had used had given him a red, itchy rash.

Marty closed his eyes now, trying to ignore the pressure in his bladder. He really, really didn’t want to go out in the storm -- but the sound of the rain wasn’t helping matters for him, either. It was never a good idea to have to listen to water dripping and gushing when you felt like this....

“Doc?” he called out a moment later, sure that the inventor still had to be awake. The storm was still more than a little noisy.

“What is it?”

The reply came quickly enough that Marty knew his guess had been accurate. He sat up, turning his head to look in the direction of Doc’s voice.

“Do you have an umbrella or anything like that? A rain slicker?”

The bedsprings squeaked, giving Marty the impression that the inventor had sat up as well. “You are not going outside in this weather,” Doc said flatly.

“You did,” Marty said.

“I had to get the horses inside from the pasture! Nothing can possibly be as important as that to risk getting struck by lightning and completely drenched.”

Marty hissed a sigh through his teeth. “I gotta take a leak, Doc. What do you suggest I do?”

There was a pause, and the sound of fumbling. A moment later the lamp was lit again. “You’ll have to do what most people did now,” Doc said, climbing out of bed. Before Marty could ask what that was, the inventor ducked down, reaching under the bed. There was the sound of something weighty being dragged across the floorboards, then Doc was standing again, clutching an object that looked almost like an oversized coffee mug -- one the size of a small mixing bowl.

“It’s a chamber pot,” Doc said, answering the question before it could be asked.

“You mean... you mean like a bedpan?” With the inventor’s nod, Marty shook his head hard. “Hell, no, I’m using one of those! I’d rather take my chances outside!”

“You’re not going outside tonight,” Doc said, once more, in the same no nonsense tone as the first time. “That storm is one of the worst I’ve seen -- and I’ve seen some pretty bad ones in my time,” he added, as if Marty didn’t know.

Almost to underscore the point, there was a spectacular burst of light from outside, and the sound of simultaneous thunder. For a moment Marty could actually feel his hair stand on end. The horses in their stalls stomped their feet and snorted, sensing the same disturbance in the atmosphere. When the light had faded, but the thunder roared on, Doc walked over to the window and peered out, frowning in concern.

“That was a close one,” he muttered. “I think it struck near the train station.”

Marty didn’t care if it had struck the clocktower seventy years early. “Doc, why don’t you have a real toilet?” he asked. “I mean, you built a fridge, but you never found time to get indoor plumbing?”

Doc answered him without turning around, raising his voice to be heard over the still-present thunderclap. “The first flush toilets don’t make their way into some of the more wealthier homes of Hill Valley until the next decade, and then are hooked into septic systems. A city sewer system for the town isn’t created until the twentieth century.”

“So? How hard can that be to make?”

The inventor finally turned to look at him as the thunder reluctantly died away. “It’s more difficult than you might think, and plumbing was never my area of interest. I managed to get the bath in here, figured out a way to get some hot water, and not exhaust myself pumping water into the building, or draining it out of the building. I’ve had other things to work on besides digging a septic system by hand, and trying to find or make a flush toilet -- like learning how to be a blacksmith, and attempting to repair a time machine. You should feel fortunate there’s an indoor bath here; that’s a luxury few, if any, have in this town right now.”

“At this point, I think I’d rather just have a flush toilet....”

Doc walked over to him and held out the chamber pot by the handle. “This is your only option right now,” he said. “Unless you want to wait out the storm.”

Which, frankly, was not an option for Marty. He swallowed hard, more than a little uncomfortable. Doc seemed to read his mind and managed a faint smile of sympathy. “Go to the empty stall over there,” he said. “That should provide you adequate privacy. You can leave it there, and then empty it in the outhouse tomorrow morning.”

Marty sighed as he got to his feet and reluctantly accepted the pot from Doc. It was made of porcelain, and quite weighty. “This bites,” he said, most sincerely.

“It could be worse,” the inventor said.

“Not after spending your whole life in the future,” was Marty’s dark reply. He stalked away, following the inventor’s suggestion about taking care of things in the empty stall, the one housing the DeLorean’s sad remains. Once in there, and safely concealed from view in the shadows, he eyed the pot a moment, not quite sure how to go about using it. The sides were high, and kind of curved in and narrowed a little before curving out again. Like a really wide vase, almost; the mouth of it was about six inches wide.

I don’t even wanna know if this has been used before -- by Doc or anyone else....

Marty really had never considered himself a paranoid, germ-phobic person, obsessed with cleanliness and sanitary conditions. But compared to back home, there was so much here that was just plain disgusting -- things he saw every single day. It was enough that he found it difficult to believe that anyone had managed to live through to adulthood. No one washed their hands after using the primitive non-flush toilets; most people seemed to bathe once a week, if that; there was always shit in the street from the horses; refrigeration and preparation of food was both sketchy and unusual.... It was a list that could go on and on.

God, hopefully Doc and I can avoid coming down with any major disease or serious injury here; for all I know, they'll leech us!

It took Marty a few minutes before he emerged from the stall again, having had to contend with a bit of experimentation in the best way to use the past’s equivalent of a bedpan. When he had finished, he left the no-longer-empty pot behind in a corner. He half expected Doc to be in bed again, but the scientist was still on his feet, looking out the back window, his hands clasped behind him. He didn’t seem to hear Marty until the teen stopped at his side and called his name.

“Doc?”

The scientist jumped a little, blinking rapidly as he turned. It was clear his mind had been far away. “Yes, Marty... I take it you’ve finished your, ah, chore?”

“Yeah; I left the pot back there like you said.” He paused, studying the inventor shrewdly. “What’s wrong? Are you worried about the storm?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Doc glanced outside as a flash lit the night up again. “I hope Clara is all right.”

Clara! Marty almost gagged. When Doc wasn’t working in blacksmithing, or trying to help his younger friend to adjust to these heinous times, he was almost constantly with the schoolteacher. On one hand, it was great he had found someone that he was so compatible with, and was clearly as crazy about him as he was over her. But on the other hand -- the more important hand, as far as Marty was concerned -- she was a big, giant distraction. Aside from vague promises, the teen hadn’t noticed any progress being made on a new time machine. Granted, it hadn’t quite been two weeks since the accident, but Single Doc would’ve been well into it. Dating Doc... wasn’t.

Aside from the distraction factor, there was also the matter that Clara really didn’t belong here. Marty’s memories from the past were still quite vivid, and he still thought of Shonash Ravine as Clayton Ravine, named, of course, for Clara’s demise. But Doc had saved her life. And since Doc wasn’t supposed to be in this time either, Marty was sure that had to mean problems later down the line. The inventor, normally so paranoid and overanalytical about the tiniest changes to history, didn’t seemed to care about this at all, lending himself to very potential hypocrisy; it was okay for Doc to change things with time travel, and experience personal gain from those changes, but not Marty?

And finally, though he would never admit it to Doc in a million years, Marty knew he was envious of his friend’s romantic life. Jennifer was a hundred years out of reach, and God knew how long it would be before he saw her again. Every time he saw Doc and Clara together, exchanging sly glances and holding hands or whatnot, he felt shut out, ignored, like the proverbial third wheel.

But, beyond all those things, however, he really didn’t have much of a problem with Clara Clayton.

A pity those little things were so weighty.

“I wonder if I should go out there,” Doc went on, not noticing the frown on Marty’s face that was quickly darkening to a scowl. “Just to check on her--”

“Hell, no!” Marty said immediately. “I just peed in what looked like a large vase because you said it was too dangerous to walk to the outhouse. That should mean riding a few miles is definitely out!”

Doc narrowed his eyes at Marty, the gaze calculating. Then he glanced outside again and nodded once -- reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I should wait until daylight, at least.”

“You should wait until the storm is over, too,” Marty said. “Don’t give me any of this double standard shit, Doc.”

Doc did have the gall to look a bit chagrined by the teen’s words. “Yes, you’re right.” He looked over to one of the clocks nearby as thunder rolled by. “The sun should rise in another hour or two. It’s possible the storm will abate by then.”

“Goody,” Marty muttered. Aside from Doc’s little restriction about going outside in the storm, and the rain still gushing through the gaps in the ceiling above, the teen didn’t mind the weather so much. Frankly, it was the most exciting thing happening in town since he’d gotten stuck here. And if it kept Doc away from his lady love, so much the better. “But even if it’s still going on, you’re not running off over there. She’s fine, Doc. She can take care of herself.”

“She’s also isolated,” Doc said. “I don’t doubt Clara’s resourcefulness in the least, but seeing as there are no telephones or ways of communication out there, and the closest neighbors are a mile away--”

“People are used to that now and lived though those little inconveniences, remember? That’s what you always tell me about this whole way of life now, every time I bitch and moan.” Marty took a deep breath, hearing the harsh edge in his voice and not liking it. But, man, if Doc was gonna ditch him to ride a couple miles in this storm, after forbidding him to walk a couple dozen feet outside.... “Let her be, Doc. You don’t want her to get in trouble if you go over there and get stuck.”

The reputation card was about the only one that Marty could play to get Doc to behave sometimes -- and, ironically, the scientist knew the dos and don’ts of etiquette here much better that the teen. Of all the differences between 1885 and 1985, Doc’s pet peeve currently seemed to be the restrictions that single women had on their behavior with members of the opposite sex. No one in 1985 would give a damn if Doc visited a young schoolteacher in the middle of the night; maybe some of the town gossips would talk, but that would be it. Here, however, not only would tongues waggle, but it could cause Clara to lose her job for reasons of improper conduct. Teachers here apparently had to be perfect saints, in and out of the classroom; there was no barrier between the public and personal life.

Doc sighed at Marty’s reminder, frowning. “Ridiculous, these rules now. It’s not as if Clara or I have salacious intentions....”

“But you know that’s the way it is now.” And, not for the first time, Marty was kind of glad. “Clara’ll be fine, Doc. Stop worrying about her so much.”

“I can’t help it,” Doc said, looking out the window once more, in the general direction of the schoolteacher’s home. “I never thought I could care for another human being as much as I care for Clara now. Rare is the moment when she is not on my mind.”

Marty snorted softly. “No kidding,” he muttered. Doc started to turn his head back to the teen, no doubt catching that. “How much progress have you got done on a new time machine, anyway?” he added quickly.

“Nothing beyond the very earliest stages of brainstorming,” the inventor said, not sounding the least bit remorseful. “But I haven’t had much time at all these last few weeks to sit down and think about it.”

Marty had to admit the truth to that excuse. Even if Clara hadn’t been around eating up the inventor’s spare moments, Doc seemed to be a key person in Hill Valley’s society at the moment. There was the blacksmithing, of course, which kept him busy pretty much from sunup to sundown. And then there was all the work one had to do now to keep themselves clean, fed, and healthy. Getting food, for instance, was not as easy as going to a supermarket with the prepackaged, premade, or completely prepared things. Everything had to be made from scratch here, with rather primitive tools at that.

“Well,” Marty said, “what if I helped you out or something during the day? Maybe that could give you more time to work on the time machine plans.”

So far, Doc had pretty much kept him away from assisting him with the blacksmithing duties. His excuse had been that Marty needed the time to recover completely from his concussion -- and that he didn’t know how to use the equipment or whatnot. Marty hadn’t pressed the issue, having little interest in wanting to learn how to make hammers, nails, horseshoes, and fix wagons. But now, if his help allowed the scientist to gain more time behind the drawing board....

The inventor was quiet for a while -- long enough for lighting and thunder to come around more than once in the pause. “Perhaps,” he finally said. “Yes, perhaps so. Many blacksmiths do have assistants, after all, and you might feel better having something to do here.”

“If it gives you more time to work on a way to get us home, definitely,” Marty agreed.

Doc studied him a moment. “It’s hard physical labor,” he warned.

“So?”

“The work can be dirty and grueling.”

“What isn’t about this time?”

Doc stared at him silently, his face half in shadow. “All right,” he said. “Then I guess we’ll start with your training on Monday.”

“Good,” Marty said. “And that means you can start working on plans for a new time machine that same day.”

Lightning flashed, turning Doc’s smile into more of a grimace. “We can hope.” He turned around abruptly and headed back to his bed, leaving Marty standing where he was, feeling faintly confused and abandoned.

“You better do a lot more than hope,” he murmured under his breath before heading back to the couch.

Emmett Brown was very careful to keep his promise to Marty from the wee hours of Saturday morning. If the teen wanted to learn the ropes on blacksmithing, and put himself to use in the shop, then he would get exactly what he wanted. But Doc was not looking forward to the process of adjustment that Marty was going to have. It had taken him weeks before he had moved past the soreness, the severe exhaustion, and the common mistakes that had peppered his every day at the job. Marty was a few decades younger, granted, but Doc had been rejuvenated in the future. It would probably give the teen about the same experience in the end; he may have skateboarded and walked many places, but Doc was betting his upper body strength was the same place his own was before he moved to the old west.

As usual, Doc rose early in the day, just after the sun slipped over the horizon. He got dressed, washed up, and began to prepare breakfast before he attempted to wake Marty. Aside from the very first week after Marty had arrived, when things needed to be done to ready the time machine for it’s departure, Doc hadn’t bothered to wake his friend before he did so on his own. Sleeping late was all but impossible anyway, as Marty would complain more than once. The close proximity to the main street of town -- and the nature of the blacksmithing business conducted within -- generated a lot of noise that anyone would be hard pressed to ignore and sleep through. Usually within a minute after Doc would start hammering, Marty would be awake and offer his typical complaint about the lack of peace and quiet.

Beginning today, however, those days were over -- if Marty was serious about being an assistant in the business. Doc headed over to the corner of the room he had cleaned out for the teen’s space, drew back one of the curtains that Marty had hung to give himself some privacy, then leaned over the cot and shook the lump burrowed under the blankets. “Marty? Time to get up.”

The lump grunted, but made no move to rise. Doc shook him harder. “C’mon, Marty. The coffee is already brewed, and we’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

Marty groaned, removing his head from the padded protection of the quilt and squinting up at Doc with a look that told him he’d better be joking. Doc smiled cheerfully at him. “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man--”

“Cranky as hell,” Marty broke in. He yawned widely. “S’too early, Doc....”

“It’s almost seven A.M. Most of the world is awake, now. With the lack of electric lights, workdays follow the daylight hours, not the numbers on a clock.”

“Lousy,” Marty said, falling back onto the pillow and closing his eyes.

“Be that as it may, it’s the way it is presently. And if you want to be trained in an apprenticeship to blacksmithing, you need to get up now.”

Marty sighed deeply, but complied. He said little until he consumed some of the coffee, however, which was probably just as well. There was so much information to share that a constant barrage of questions would only slow things down.

Marty, Doc knew from past experience, was a quick learner when he wanted to be. And he seemed to be genuinely interested in the craft of smithing -- or perhaps he was just happy to have something to do. Having a lot of idle time to brood was never a good thing, and the inventor realized that he should have done this much sooner. It would be good for Marty, allowing him something constructive to work on, and it would give Doc perhaps a bit more leisure time to work on possible time machines that he could construct from present-day materials.

Around five, Doc started to shut things down for the day. Business almost always slowed to a halt around that time as families gathered home for the night. Marty followed Doc’s directions in putting the tools and equipment away for the night while the inventor got supper together. His cooking skills were adequate, but he had little time for real creativity with meals considering the current limitations on cooking supplies and devices. Marty drifted over when he had finished putting things away, looked at the stovetop, and curled his lip.

“Beans again? Jeez, Doc....”

“They’re healthy for you -- not to mention quick and easy to cook.”

“No kidding; every time you’ve been out with Clara I’ve had to make ‘em myself. Ugh.” He drifted over to the couch nearby and dropped back into it. Doc glanced over at him, as he stirred one of the pots. (Beans, bread, and some soup that Clara had prepared and given to him the day before were to be that night’s big meal.) Marty looked thoroughly spent from the day’s activities, but the inventor knew that tomorrow would probably be worse. He still remembered how sore he had been the first few days, before his body had adjusted.

“You might be a bit sore tomorrow,” he mentioned to Marty while it was on his mind.

“I’m already sore now,” Marty muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He let his head drop to the back of the couch and peered at Doc through half closed eyes. “What time’s this meteor shower tonight?”

Doc had almost forgotten about that -- or forgotten that Marty wanted to go. “It peaks at one A.M.,” he said. “Clara was going to come here later this evening, and we were planning to depart around eleven for the ravine.”

Marty raised his head to look at his friend. “The ravine? You mean the same one Clara should’ve been at the bottom of?” Doc nodded, and the teen frowned. “Isn’t that kinda creepy?”

“No, because she didn’t go over the side.”

Marty continued to stare at him. “Does she know about that, Doc? About what would’ve happened to her if you weren’t there?”

“Even a fool could gather what would have happened if I had not been there, and Clara is anything but a fool.”

“But does she really know, Doc? I mean, it’s one thing to know that something like that probably would’ve happened, but knowing for sure has gotta be a whole different experience.”

Yes, it is, Doc thought, frowning as he recalled the sight of his own tombstone in 1955. The abstract conceptions of your own death -- somewhere distant, in a future time far off from the present, hopefully -- were easy to live with because, ultimately, everyone died. No one was immortal, and even a time machine couldn’t buy you that, though you might be able to get close. Seeing a date carved, literally, into stone, though, was something else entirely. Even if that particular date was now past, and he was still very much alive, the memory alone made him shiver.

“No,” the scientist said in answer to Marty’s question. “I never told her what happened to her in the original history. Why should I? It’s past.”

“I doubt she’d wanna go anywhere near the ravine if she knew,” Marty said.

“Well, nothing will happen to her tonight. We’ll stay away from the edge, and the celestial view should be spectacular. The food should be ready in a few minutes; can you get the dishes and utensils?”

It was a deliberate change of subject, and it seemed to work... for a few minutes. But when the food was dished out and the two of them were sitting at the small dining table eating, Marty brought it up again -- in a slightly different way.

“Doc?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you remember a couple weeks ago... the morning after the town festival?”

Great Scott, did he remember? How could he forget that morning, the night following his very first kiss with Clara! Doc smiled at the mere memory. “Of course,” he said. “What about it?”

Marty set down the piece of bread in his hand and gave Doc his full attention. “What did you mean about that accident in the future?”

Doc stopped chewing for a second, surprised Marty had remembered -- and rather disheartened that he had. He swallowed the food in his mouth and took a drink of water before he answered. “No one should know too much about their future, Marty,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“And right now it looks like I’m stuck here for some of my future,” Marty said. “What was it that you almost told me? I want to know.”

“Why? It’s quite possible it won’t come to pass now.”

“So what? Come on, Doc. I’ve given you a heads up when you’re gonna meet big trouble in the future. Why can’t you do the same for me?”

Doc thought about those points for a moment, then sighed and rested his hands on the tabletop, resigning himself to the inevitable. “All right. But I’m only sharing this with you because I don’t think it will come to pass anymore. And, frankly, I would prefer for you to forget this by the time you eventually go home. The decision to avert this accident should come from you, and not because of a ‘tip’ from me.”

Marty looked ill at ease suddenly, tapping his finger against his glass of water. “Okay, Doc. Shoot: What happens to me in the future?”

“When I went to 2015 originally--” He stressed the word as much as he could. “--I found that your life had... not quite turned out the way you wanted it to. At the time I thought maybe I could better things by using your help to keep your kids out of trouble. We succeeded with that, as far as I know, but that wasn’t the cause of the problems at all. You can’t cure cancer by just cutting out the tumor; you have to go to the root of the disease.”

Marty made a face. “What a great analogy....”

Doc ignored that. “I did some research in the future about your life -- before I even saw you or your family in the future. One of the more troubling things I discovered -- the most troubling thing, I should say -- was this: On Sunday, October 27th, 1985, at approximately 11:30 A.M., you were in an automobile accident with Jennifer.”

Marty blanched. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “Was she okay?”

“She had a slight concussion, and a few cuts and bruises, but she was fine. You, on the other hand, not only sustained a concussion, but you broke your right hand quite badly. It had to have some surgery and pins had to be put into it. Even with physical therapy -- which, apparently, you didn’t follow through with -- your hand never regained the same agility it once had. You weren’t even eighteen, Marty, but any career in music that you had -- performing it, anyway -- was gone.”

Marty stared at him, still quite pale, then lifted his right hand up and examined it. He flexed his fingers out, balled them into a fist, then wiggled them around in the air. “Just like that?” he asked dully.

“Yes -- because of an accident that could have easily been prevented. You were drag racing with a classmate, and struck a Rolls-Royce. It was your fault, the accident, and the driver sued. Your father’s budding career as a novelist made you -- and him -- a tempting target. The case dragged through the courts for a few months before a settlement was reached. Your family -- and Jennifer, God bless her -- stuck by you the entire time. But you were never the same after that.”

“Well, of course not! Doc, if I couldn’t do music--”

Doc raised his hand, causing Marty to sputter to a stop. “You wanted to hear this, Marty; as I said a moment ago, it may never come to pass now. You shouldn’t get so upset, since this event has not yet occurred; it can be changed.”

Marty didn’t seem to care. “So you were just gonna let me go home? Let me have that lousy future without giving me one hint? Thanks a lot, Doc!”

The inventor sighed to himself, not surprised in the least by his friend’s reaction. He had expected this from the moment he first heard the details, first from newspapers, and then from the older version of Marty who he had finally visited on October 28, 2015 -- mere days after his kids got into the mess that destroyed the already-shaky remains of the McFly marriage.

“I tried to fix it,” he said. “Believe me, I didn’t want your life to turn out like that any more than you did. But I had an error in judgment at the time, and it wasn’t until I was stranded back here these last several months that I had the time to reflect on those couple weeks. Saving your children from imprisonment wasn’t the cause of your unhappiness in the future, or the dissolution of your marriage. I didn’t go to the root of the problem -- but the root of the problem wasn’t your hitting a Rolls-Royce, either.”

“Yeah? Then what the hell was it?”

“Your temper,” Doc said softly.

Marty let out a breath, slumping back in his chair, the wind having been taken out of his sails with the announcement. “My temper?” he echoed softly.

“You got into that drag race in the first place because someone called you a name, goaded you into it. And you felt you had to prove something to them. It was a ridiculously petty reason to destroy your future -- and Jennifer’s.”

“But I... I won’t let that happen anymore, Doc. I turned down Buford, remember?”

Doc nodded once, smiling faintly. “Yes, of course. And perhaps that accident has -- or will -- be avoided in the future. But now I’d like you to forget everything about what I’ve just said. Because if you avoid this car accident now, simply because you know about it ahead of time, who’s to say there won’t be something just like it in the future -- with far worse results? Your temper was the cause of the accident, Marty, and controlling it is the key to avoiding scenarios like that.”

Marty looked a little spooked, nodding once. He didn’t eat much more, and Doc was regretting the news he had shared already. He hoped to God this wouldn’t make things worse for the teen down the line. Marty had enough problems already to grapple with.

Earlier in the week, when Marty had agreed to help Doc chaperone Clara’s students on a field trip to the lake, he had been under the impression that the activity was of the afternoon variety. Or at least something that would happen between sunrise to sunset. Not overnight. Not at all.

But someone -- Doc or Clara or both -- hadn’t been entirely forthcoming with the details. Marty didn’t know it was an overnight excursion until Friday morning, when Doc put him to the task of rounding up some camping gear that was scattered about the livery stable. Then the truth came out. Marty hadn’t believed his ears for a moment, then he just stared at Doc, annoyed. The inventor didn’t seem to notice the teen’s irritation or surprise until Marty spoke up -- “Since when is this a camp out?” -- and then he was less than understanding.

“I thought you were aware of that,” Doc said, packing together some beef jerky and coffee.

“No,” Marty said flatly. “I wasn’t.”

Doc glanced over at him, noticing the tone in his friend’s voice. “You don’t need to go if you’re feeling that negatively about it. Besides, it’s just for one night.”

Marty fought a brief inner battle about the matter. Even though the day was just several hours into the morning, he was already exhausted -- the grueling labor of working in a blacksmithing shop, coupled with the ungodly early rising hours, made this feel like the week from hell that would never end. Doc assured him that it would get easier over time, having noticed his struggles, but the comment fell on deaf ears. Marty knew he could’ve given in and perhaps taken it a bit easier -- Doc wasn’t forcing him to work -- but he knew the more he helped out, the more time the inventor could have to work on a new time machine. In theory. He didn’t want to give Doc any excuses for not getting it done.

So the last thing he wanted or felt like doing was getting roped into a camp out on the lake, supervising a dozen or so school-aged kids.

But the stubborn, prideful part of Marty was determined to not back out of his commitment -- plus, someone needed to be there to make sure Doc and Clara wouldn’t get even closer on this little outing. Maybe the students of Hill Valley would help in that respect, but Marty wouldn’t be able to rest unless he could be in a position to interfere if it needed to be done. Even in 1985 the lake was a pretty place and offered numerous, secluded spots for a romantic reindevoux.

It also was a place teeming with memories for him, and associations with Jennifer. He was not looking forward to seeing it. Marty could only hope that, sometime in the last hundred years or so, it had changed to look a lot different.

“No,” Marty said to Doc, yanking a couple blankets from a chest nearby. “I’m still in.”

The teen half expected further confrontation, but the scientist offered no argument or protest to the decision.

Around noon, Doc closed down the shop, hitched up two of the horses to the buckboard wagon (where the supplies were loaded), and they headed out to Clara’s cabin next to the school house. Clara was outside when they arrived, reading to a group of about fifteen kids of various ages under the shade of a tree. She stood at their approach, and by the time Doc stopped the vehicle every child was standing and staring at them, silent. They seemed exceptionally well behaved, even shy, and Marty wondered if this was some weird product of these times -- kids actually being seen and not heard, that sort of thing -- when one of the boys near the front murmured, “You’re Clint Eastwood!”

Marty still couldn’t help starting a bit at the sound of his name, not entirely used to hearing it addressed to him. If anyone else had ever noticed his occasional reaction they had not commented. He smiled faintly at the boy as he climbed down from the buckboard seat. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Marty almost immediately found himself encircled by most of the kids, staring at him with looks of pure fascination and excitement on their faces. “Tell us about the showdown!” one of them begged.

“Yeah, tell us how ya got Mad Dog Tannen in jail!”

“What about when you used that stove door? How’d ya come up with that?”

“Were you scared lots then? My Pa said you didn’t even break a sweat!”

And on. The voices blended together, the mixture almost immediately giving Marty a headache. He threw a look at Doc, but the inventor had already joined Clara’s side and was smiling warmly at her, the rest of the world temporarily forgotten. Damn.

After a few minutes of trying to answer the questions being shouted out, Marty’s helpless looks were finally noticed by Clara, who rounded the students up to give them a quick overview of what the next day would entail. Marty listened with half an ear, helping Doc load the students’ belongings into the back of the wagon. They hadn’t even left yet and already he was wondering what the hell he had gotten himself roped into.

“Don’t worry,” Doc murmured to him, perhaps catching sight of the vaguely panicked look on his friend’s face. “The kids will settle down once we get on our way. All you need to do is make sure they don’t wander off and get lost, or get into the water. Any teaching will be done by myself or Clara.”

“Good,” Marty muttered. “’Cause if you think I know anything about plant biology or whatever, you’ve got another thing coming.”

In the future, the journey to the lake took about a half hour by car. Here, relying on horses, wagons, and foot traffic, it took the better part of the day. By the time they got in sight of the cool blue of the water, Marty’s patience had worn thinner than a guitar pick. The students were either whining or nagging him with questions, his feet ached from hiking most of the distance, and he was already sorely wishing he was back in the smithing shop. He may have been isolated there, but it was quiet and he could probably catch up on the rest he had lacked that week.

As it was late afternoon when they reached the campsite, Doc and Clara were eager to begin the lesson that they took the kids out there for. So Marty remained behind to set things up -- which was only slightly better than chaperoning in that he got some peace. Unfortunately, his skills at erecting tents and campfires was pretty limited. He’d camped before, but that stuff was easier to put up, then -- and usually someone else was around to help out.

Marty’s mood got blacker during the couple hours he was alone near the shore of the lake, though by the time the students returned, he had managed to get the two tents up, and some wood collected for a fire. He half expected a thank you from Doc or Clara, but the two of them were too busy talking about something in low voices, bringing up the rear of the students.

And then the kids latched onto him again. They wanted stories after dinner, tales of death defiance and adventure -- especially about outwitting the outlaw Tannen. Marty didn’t want to talk about it -- he was too tired and too cranky -- but there wasn’t anything else to do. He managed to get through one of them -- and then the sun had set enough for an impromptu astronomy lesson on the shore of the lake. With about fifteen schoolkids running around, the teen figured he didn’t need to accompany them to distract Doc and Clara and to learn about something that, honestly, he’d gotten his fill of earlier in the week during the meteor shower. He remained at the campsite, sitting close to the fire -- the temperature began to plummet once the sun went down, due to the close proximity of the water -- watching the flames and thinking of home. And of Jennifer. And of the trip to the lake that never was.

It really didn’t improve his mood much.

When it came time to turn in, the students were split up based on their sex, of course. Clara stayed with the five girls in one tent, while Marty and Doc supervised the greater number of boys -- some spilling into the other tent, some spending the night out under the stars, near the campfire. Marty volunteered for outdoor duty -- partially because he wasn’t sure how great his handiwork at assembling the tents had gone, and if it collapsed, he didn’t want to deal with it. Even with the hard ground and the whispers between some of the kids, it didn’t take him long to fall asleep, being so worn down from the long day.

Marty woke before dawn, however, without the faintest idea on how much time had passed -- or even what time it was. He blinked a few times after opening his eyes, raising his head enough to take in the fire -- reduced to scarlet and golden embers -- and the dim circle of light it cast. The kids seemed to be sleeping, motionless bundles under blankets, and the sky above was still dark and filled with stars. He settled back down, looking up at the sky -- and that’s when he heard something nearby. A rustling of leaves -- and the soft murmur of someone’s voice.

Marty sat up, too surprised to really be scared. Damn kids, he thought, surprised that any of them were ballsy enough to wander off at this time of night. The oldest student was fourteen, and he didn’t seem to have a girlfriend in the crowd. Plus, there was the very real danger of wild animals out and about. The students knew that better than he did -- though meeting that bear minutes after his arrival to 1885 was definitely something that had made an impression.

Maybe it’s not one of the students, Marty thought, suddenly uneasy. He untangled himself from the blankets and got to his feet, picking up a branch from the firewood pile. Just in case.

He could move quietly when he wanted to, and this was one of those times. The noises continued. He ducked out of the feeble light of the dying fire, found the path that led to the waterside, and crept along it.

A moment later he almost ran right into someone. Two someones, to be exact. Startled, Marty jumped back, off the path -- and toppled right over a bush, his improvised weapon sailing out of his hand. He heard a couple gasps from the other people, then they materialized at his side. “What are you -- Marty?”

Marty struggled to sit up, sharp branches and twigs poking at him in a variety of tender places. He recognized the voice immediately and scowled, irritated at both himself and-- “Doc, what the hell are you doing?”

He felt hands grab him by the arms and haul him up to his feet. When he was properly upright again, he saw Doc to his left -- and Clara on his right. Marty glanced between the two -- who looked both startled and guilty, as if they had been caught doing something they shouldn’t -- and snorted softly. “I should’ve known....”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Clara said immediately. “Emmett heard me leave and came after me.”

“I wanted to make sure nothing happened to her,” Doc added, with barely a pause after the schoolteacher’s words.

Marty’s deepening frown proclaimed his skepticism on that loud and clear. “Right,” he drawled.

Clara looked even more nervous. “I should go back to the campsite,” she said softly. “We can’t leave the children unsupervised.”

“Yes, quite so,” Doc agreed. He watched her for a moment as she turned and headed down the path, then looked at Marty. “It’s not what you think,” he said in a low voice.

“Sure it isn’t,” Marty muttered, annoyed by his friend’s hypocrisy. “For someone not trying to ruin her rep, you’re definitely going to great lengths to spend every second alone and unsupervised.”

“Marty, Clara was telling the truth,” Doc said softly. “I heard a noise when she was leaving and came out to investigate. We were only away for a few minutes.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Marty started to turn around to slink back to bed, but Doc grabbed his arm, preventing his departure. “You don’t believe me.”

Marty stared at the inventor’s face a moment, half hidden in the shadows. “No, I don’t,” he said bluntly.

“Why on earth would you think I would lie about that?”

“Well, sleeping with a woman if you’re not married to her is probably frowned upon now, right?”

Marty started to turn around again, feeling strangely satisfied by the shocked expression he had provoked on Doc’s face. The scientist yanked him to a stop a second later. “What on earth would give you the impression that we’re doing that?” Doc hissed, sounding both horrified and angry.

Marty was quick to cite reasons. “You guys are always going off alone together -- at night,” he added. “And there was that first night of the town festival where you never came home. You seemed pret-ty happy when you showed up later that morning....”

“Absolutely nothing happened,” Doc said, his voice quiet and utterly serious. “We stayed up all night talking. And subsequent encounters have been just as innocent. Great Scott, Marty -- Clara and I haven’t been seeing each other a month yet! And in this time... proper women don’t do that. Especially schoolteachers! I cannot believe that you would even think that!”

“Well if I’m thinking it, you can be damn sure someone else is, too,” Marty said. “You’re doing a shitty job of keeping her reputation squeaky clean.”

Doc froze. “Have you heard rumors in town?” he asked, his voice sounding odd.

Marty hadn’t heard a word, but he saw no need to assure Doc about it. “Maybe,” he said cryptically. “You gotta stop spending so much time with her like you are. You’re acting like a couple of kids -- in a bad way.”

Doc was quiet a minute, his face impossible to read. The shadows were much too numerous. “Marty, are you jealous of Clara?”

Marty blinked at the question, completely caught off guard. He couldn’t be that transparent, could he? “What? No! What the hell makes you say that?”

“Well, you’re acting awfully odd about this matter....”

Marty sighed hard, frustrated. “I’m just trying to protect you, Doc -- and her,” he said, only half honest, his words coming out clipped. “You keep saying how stuff’s different now, that people are gonna talk, but you just keep setting things up to make people think the wrong thing. If you aren’t sleeping with Clara, then you should stop making it look like you are.”

Doc winced. “Stop saying that,” he said. “That’s not only untrue, that’s very private and personal information. I would never accuse you of participating in such intimate activities with Jennifer.”

“I could care less if you did,” Marty said. “And if you’re asking, the answer is no, that hasn’t happened between us.”

Another pause. When Doc spoke, he sounded surprised. “Well, that’s probably a wise decision. You’re both young, there’s plenty of time for that....”

Marty gritted his teeth, annoyed that Doc had completely missed the point. “That’s why we were going to the lake that weekend,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Oh.” Then: “Oh! And you never did make that trip, did you?”

“No -- you showing up to grab Jen and I and push us into the DeLorean kinda derailed it.”

“Well.... Well, perhaps it was for the best, under the current circumstances.”

Marty glared at Doc, having very different thoughts about that matter, but the inventor didn’t notice his gaze. The shadows had a hand in that again. “Clara and I enjoy time in each other’s company,” Doc went on. “But we’re both grown adults. There is a time and a place for a more intimate relationship, and it’s certainly not right now. In fact, the only proper thing to do if we wanted to do that in this more conservative time period would be to marry.”

Marty froze. The M word -- Doc had said it! He swallowed hard, then managed a shrug, as if he could not care less. “Well, great, then. Good for you. Can I go now?”

It took Doc a minute before he released his grip on the teen’s arm. “I suppose we should get back,” he said softly. “The sun will be up in a couple hours.”

Marty turned around and headed back for the campsite, not bothering to wait for Doc. The inventor’s words of a moment ago still lingered in his head: “There is a time and a place for a more intimate relationship, and it’s certainly not right now. In fact, the only proper thing to do if we wanted to do that in this more conservative time period would be to marry.”

He felt cold all over. Doc can’t do that, Marty told himself firmly. It’d change too much history, and he knows it... right?

He wasn’t very convinced by that argument anymore. Doc was doing a lot of things now that weren’t in the best interest of history.

Marty remained awake the rest of that night, too bothered by the concept that seemed more likely with each passing day. He watched the sky grown brighter by degrees, wishing more than anything at the moment that he was back home with Jennifer beside him. Or that she could be there with him now, to share the beauty of the lake.

The idea had been nibbling at Doc for a couple weeks. But it finally crystalized into one of tangible possibility and acceptance a week after the field trip. Later, he could pinpoint the moment the decision was made, his mind set.

He and Clara had met for what had essentially become a weekly ritual -- dinner together on Friday evening, concluding the end of yet another work week. It was an opportunity for both to decompress a bit from the stress of earning a living, particularly Clara. With classes only a couple weeks along, there was plenty that was still new and provoking adjustment for her. She had gone from teaching in a private academy in the east to a public one-room frontier schoolhouse.

Hill Valley wasn’t developed enough yet to offer a true restaurant experience, but on Friday and Saturday evenings, the boarding house on the main street allowed anyone who wanted a homemade meal at a reasonable price to come by. Doc had dined there alone more than once during his solo months in 1885 -- he had actually taken a room in the boarding house during his first month in the past, while scouting for places to live -- and had taken Clara there by mid-September. The last couple weeks, however, they had spent their weekly dinner “date” at Clara’s residence.

After the conversation he had had with Marty at the lake, though, Doc was considerably more paranoid, and aware that such a scenario was a great risk. Great Scott! If people thought he and Clara were carrying on as man and wife now... and she being the school teacher.... Doc was not going to be responsible for soiling her reputation, as well as the possible loss of her job. It was probably wise to keep their time together as public as possible from here on out.

“It’s been quite interesting seeing the differences between the academy and here,” Clara said as they waited for their meal. “The children are bright, for the most part, but so many of them seem uninterested in their education.”

The inventor couldn’t suppress a chuckle at her earnestness. “That’s one thing that never changes,” he said, recalling Marty’s opinion on school over the years.

“Really? The students back east seemed much more attentive in that regard.” Clara frowned, worried. “You don’t think it’s my approach to teaching that is creating their disinterest, do you?”

“No,” Doc said immediately. “You’re a wonderful educator. Some students will simply be bored no matter what. Believe me. I saw more than one kid -- ah, sorry, student -- doze off in my classroom, or flunk out because they didn’t bother to study or do the work. And these were university students. You can only do so much.”

Clara looked only faintly appeased by this revelation. “It’s the boys in the class who give me the most trouble,” she admitted. “Perhaps that’s the difference -- I taught only girls in New Jersey at the academy.”

“That may be so,” Doc agreed. “Another difference may be that you taught in a private school before. Not a public one.”

Clara nodded. Their plates arrived then, filled with fresh fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. “Here y’go, Mr. Brown, Miss Clayton,” the landlady, Julia Bovary, said. She was a stout red-haired woman in her middle age, with a chatty and cheerful demeanor. She was the primary operator of the boarding home; her husband, Jacob, was the town barber and spent his days in the shop running that business. “I haven’t seen you here for a c’ple weeks, now.”

“Yes, well, Miss Clayton wanted to treat me to some of her fine culinary skills,” Doc said lightly.

Mrs. Bovary smiled. “Ah, and did it fare well?”

“Quite so, but we missed your meals here,” the inventor said, fibbing just a smidge about the latter. “Besides, this way Miss Clayton need not trouble herself with the dishes or cleaning up.”

Mrs. Bovary smiled at the couple. “He’s a keeper, Miss Clayton,” she said to the teacher. “Ain’t often you find a man so concerned with such little things as that.”

Clara nodded, reaching across the tabletop to pat Doc’s hand. “I agree,” she said with her own warm smile directed to the scientist.

“So when are you going to make it official, then?” Mrs. Bovary asked, looking at Doc. “Pardon my frankness, but you’re not gettin’ any younger -- and a couple so smitten as y’all belong together.”

Doc felt the smile on his face tense up. He was painfully aware of Clara’s eyes on him, studying him with a quiet intensity. “Well. uh--”

“We are together right now, Mrs. Bovary,” Clara said, cutting off Doc’s attempt of an answer. “And do realize that Emmett has been courting me scarcely a month.” Indeed, the anniversary of their first date, at the town festival, was just days away.

“Perhaps, but as I said before, you both are fit for the other. I can tell a good match when I see it.” Hearing the sound of her name being called from the direction of the kitchen, the matron excused herself and left them alone.

There was a moment of awkwardness after she left. Clara was the first to break it. “Pay her no mind, Emmett,” she said in a low voice. “She spoke out of turn.”

“Yes, well, in my time we would call that being blunt, or honest,” Doc murmured, his mind still lingering behind on Mrs. Bovary’s words.

“I would call it rude more than anything else,” Clara said softly. “But I knew many women just like her in New Jersey. Always prying into another’s business and affairs.”

Doc had known a great many people like that in the future himself. Everyone who dared to pass on the town crackpot rumors and reputations, feeding that monster for more than three decades, was part of that breed of humanity. Still, while he had been able to shrug away most of what came out of the mouths of people like that, Mrs. Bovary’s words stuck uncomfortably with him.

“So when are you going to make it official...? ...You’re not gettin’ any younger... You both are fit for the other. I can tell a good match when I see it....”

Aware that Clara was staring at him, waiting for him to respond, the inventor forced a slight smile on his face. “There are people like that around no matter where or when you are,” he said. “And though that woman may have her faults, at least baking is not one of them.”

It was his subtle way of changing the subject, and Clara eagerly accepted it. They both began to eat the still-hot meal, but Doc’s enthusiasm at the food was considerably blunted. Clara chatted about school once more, sharing some stories and concerns she had about a few of the students. Doc nodded and made the appropriate sort of comments, but his mind was not entirely there anymore. He was still stuck on those oh-so-innocently uttered words.

It was one thing to think of the concept privately, from a scientifically detached point of view. But hearing it uttered by someone else.... Doc was reminded of the sensation he had felt in his chest when Marty had assumed that he and Clara were getting physically intimate. A tight, constricting pressure that seemed to suction all the breath out of his lungs for a moment. And a surprise that the idea had even remotely occurred to someone else.

But what was this, anyway? This relationship with Clara? Where was it ultimately headed? The feelings that he had for the schoolteacher were not going to go away by any means. Doc knew that he ultimately wanted more than what they had now -- he wasn’t doubting that. They couldn’t date like this indefinitely. In times like these, it was expected that dating, that courtship, would eventually end in marriage.

He felt cold all over at the thought. Not because the idea repulsed him -- it most certainly did not! -- but because it was something so dangerous for him.

The rest of the dinner was a blur for Doc. His mind cycled uncomfortably around the matter broached by the landlady. Clara had to know something was bothering him; after a while she finally ceased her stream of chatter, and when they had paid their bill and Doc was escorting her home, she broached the subject.

“Emmett, it’s plain your mind is far from the here and now.... You aren’t still troubled by what Mrs. Bovary said, are you?”

“No,” Doc lied at once. “Not at all.”

“Well, good. There’s utterly no pressure for you to propose marriage to me. Goodness, we only just met a month ago. And I know about your unusual situation here. I imagine that may present some sort of problem, if you wed someone in your hometown’s past.”

“Yes, those are all valid reasons,” Doc muttered, still troubled.

Clara could tell that her words were of little or no assurance to the scientist. She simply gave his arm a squeeze and, once they reached her home, favored him with a brief kiss. “I have papers that need grading,” she said, “so you may excuse me if I don’t invite you in for a cup of tea.”

Preoccupied, Doc offered no argument. He could feel Clara’s concerned gaze on his back as he turned around and headed back towards town.

Walking in the cool dusk alone did more to settle his mind. Without the distraction of Clara, trying her best to pull him out of his thoughts, he was able to focus on the problem with much more attention. He was blessed, or cursed, with an ability to shut out the entire world when he needed to think hard about something, or was feeling particularly engaged, and this was one of those times. Just what was it that was bothering him so much? It certainly couldn’t be the presumption that Mrs. Bovary had made. It was a natural assumption anyone would probably make about any couple that was in love. How did that childhood rhyme go? First comes love, then comes marriage?

I want to marry Clara, Doc realized halfway to his home. The thought stopped him cold. He took a deep breath and shook his head once, hard. “I can’t,” he murmured aloud. “It’s too risky for the space-time continuum.”

Of course, so was time travel itself -- and that hadn’t exactly stopped him. But marriage was something so permanent, so life changing. It would ensure that he and Clara would be together no matter the circumstances -- or the time period. It was his full intention, provided she was favorable to the idea, to take her back to the future when he and Marty left eventually. She didn’t belong here as much as he did not.

Which should be more of a blessing than a curse in this case, Doc reflected. He didn’t have to worry that by marrying him, Clara would skew history. She hadn’t married anyone in this time before. If anything, it would prevent history from going off by keeping away men who might fall for Clara’s charm and beauty later on, causing them to perhaps overlook the girl that they had been destined to wed and have children with.

In that case, Doc realized, marrying Clara could be more beneficial to the space-time continuum than harmful.

Doc swallowed hard, his heart giving an almost painful squeeze, making it hard to breathe for a moment. He felt as if the bottom had dropped right out from under his boots. Life suddenly seemed so topsy turvy; he could hardly believe what he was considering. He wanted to do it -- no, he was going to do it.

He would propose to Clara.

The only question was, when? And, Great Scott, how did one even go about asking a woman to marry them?

Doc quickened his pace home, suddenly eager to talk to Marty.

Since the trip to the lake, Marty had been rather quiet, almost sulky. He hadn’t been terribly prone to conversation of any sort, impervious to Doc’s various attempts to draw him out. Doc wasn’t sure what was eating at him anymore -- maybe he was still trying to adjust to the physical labors of being an assistant to a blacksmith, or else the current technologies. Fatigue and culture shock could definitely explain his current mood. As could any negative feelings towards Clara, though he had assured Doc that wasn’t the case.

He didn’t expect that Marty would be out of the barn when he returned, and his guess was accurate. The teen was seated at one of the worktables near the back window, a lamp lit and providing a soft illumination to whatever had captured his fascination. Papers, from the look of it. He didn’t look up as Doc came in quietly, not aware of his presence until the inventor spoke.

“What are you looking at?”

Marty jumped ever so slightly, looking up with wide eyes. “Doc,” he blurted out. “What are you doing home already?”

Seeing that he typically did not return until several hours after dark when out with Clara, Doc thought Marty was entitled to the confusion. “Clara had papers to grade,” he said. “What are you reading?”

Marty’s hands suddenly splayed out over the table top, almost as if he was trying to conceal what the papers were from Doc’s view. They froze a moment, then his fingers suddenly relaxed. He looked at the inventor, almost guiltily. “Well, uh... it’s the notes you had for the time machine.”

Doc felt his eyebrows raise. “Those shouldn’t be out,” he admonished as he headed over to the table. “What if someone saw them?”

“No one will,” Marty said. “I only took them out just to look at them now.”

The action surprised Doc. “Why?” he asked, sincerely curious. The sketches and scribbles were almost all technical in nature, calculations, theories or thoughts that had seemed promising, or did seem promising. Marty had never been interested in that sort of thing before, or even educated enough to make remote sense of it.

Marty sighed, resting his chin in his hands as he glanced down at the papers spread about. “I was curious,” he muttered. “I dunno.”

The explanation made little sense to Doc, and he was about to ask him to clarify that a bit when the teen went on. “I’ve been here a month now, you know? A month, now.”

The inventor’s eyes automatically lifted to the calendar set near the window. The page told him it was Friday, October second. “No, you didn’t arrive until September third,” he said.

Marty shook his head. “I got here on September second -- I just didn’t get into town until the next day. You sent me so far out of the way that I was miles from town. I had to spend the night with Seamus and Maggie, remember?”

Now that he thought about it, Doc did recall Marty mentioning something like that. Just as he did remember, a bit more vaguely, setting the destination time himself for Marty’s arrival in 1885. “Oh, that’s right. But what does that have to do with the papers?”

Marty shrugged, “I was bored,” he said. “There’s nothing to do around here, you know. And I was curious to see how far you’d really gotten on this stuff. Maybe there was something I could help you with. But I just... can’t understand any of it. Do you really gotta write everything out in these formulas? It’s like trying to decode Algebra problems!”

Doc smiled, amused. “Well, perhaps that’s a good thing. If anyone happened to see those papers they wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of it. Those really shouldn’t be out, Marty.”

The teen frowned, folding his arms across his chest. “I wasn’t hurting them, Doc. What harm is it gonna do if I look ‘em over?”

“Considering you understand nothing? Very little. But I’m not worried about you as much as I’m worried about someone else seeing those... or even any damage happening to the papers. That’s ten months of theoretical research right there.”

He reached over and began to collect the papers together. Marty watched him, still frowning, but offered no real protest. “Why don’t you keep those out and work on ‘em?” he asked. “If you’re back this early, and Clara’s got stuff to do, you have the time. Right?”

Doc hesitated a moment, realizing the teen had a good point. But his mind was so scattered at the moment from the decision he had reached that he wasn’t sure working out formulas for a new time machine was the best idea. “Perhaps later,” he said, tucking the papers back into the portfolio where they had come from. “I’d like to talk to you about something Marty. I -- I suppose I could use some advice.”

Marty blinked, the frown segueing into an expression of curiosity. “What’s up, Doc?”

Doc pulled up a chair and had a seat next to Marty. The teen turned to face him, his blue eyes narrowed almost suspiciously. “I made a decision tonight,” he said.

“Uh huh....”

Doc waited a second, then uttered the words aloud for the first time. “I want to ask Clara to marry me.”

Marty blinked again, his mouth falling open a quarter of an inch. “What?” he asked in a half whisper.

“I want to marry Clara.”

Marty’s lips moved silently for a moment, then he found his voice. “Does she know?”

“No, no, I haven’t asked her yet. That’s what I’d like to know: What are the proper customs involved in proposing marriage to a woman? I’ve seen it done before in movies, of course, but I’ve had no personal firsthand experience in the area. Would you have any ideas?”

“Uh... well.... Are you sure this is a good idea, Doc? Wouldn’t this do something like screw up history?”

“It can’t skew anything much more than us simply being here,” Doc said. “And Clara’s not supposed to still be around here now. She never married in the original history -- not anyone. My marrying her wouldn’t change any history in that regard, and in fact it could perhaps ensure that history will change no more than it has already. No man who may be destined for someone else will go after her if she’s a married woman.”

“Okay...” Marty said slowly. “But what if... what if you had kids?”

“No,” Doc said at once, shaking his head. “That’s too risky, I agree. We can take precautions to avoid that -- at least so far as we’re here in the past. Besides, Clara is old enough that I could foresee her pregnancy being risky in this day and age. I wouldn’t trust the doctors now with something like that.”

“What about a place to live? You’re not gonna suggest she move in here, are you?” Marty sounded appalled by the idea.

“No,” Doc said. “She has her own home right now, the cabin next to the school house.”

“Yeah, but can she teach school if she gets married now, Doc? Didn’t you say the rules for that stuff were all different now than they are in the future?”

“I’m not sure,” Doc admitted. “There may be something in her contract that requires her to resign from her position if she marries, but... well, I suppose we can cross that bridge when we come to it. We were desperate for a teacher out here before she came out, so perhaps the school board could be persuaded to let that slide.”

“So if she loses her job because of this, is she gonna move in here?”

Doc took a second to glance around the quarters. It wasn’t a terrible place to live, but he could see how uncomfortable it might be for Clara. There was almost no privacy, and his work and home life slopped over both ways. “No, I suppose I’d have to see about finding a place that is more suitable for a woman. I’ve socked away some money while I’ve been here; I might be able to afford some land and the materials to build a house....”

“What about building a new time machine?” Marty asked immediately. “Won’t that cost money?”

Doc took a breath, held it a moment, then exhaled slowly through his teeth. “It may,” he said. “But I’ll find some way to fund it, Marty. Just because I want to get married doesn’t mean that anything else will change. We still need to leave the past. Clara will have to come with us.”

Marty didn’t say anything to that, his lips tightening together. Something about his reaction troubled Doc. “Marty, how do you feel about Clara? Honestly, now.”

“She’s great, Doc.”

The words were uttered without an ounce of conviction. The inventor stared at his friend a moment, but Marty’s face was suddenly blank, wholly unreadable. “Do you think I’m making a mistake, asking her to marry me?”

“No, go for it. Do what you want.”

Again, that same odd, flat tone. Something wasn’t right. Doc looked hard at Marty, silent, waiting for him to say more. Marty stared back at him a moment, then dropped his eyes to the desktop and the stack of time machine papers.

“Well, all right, then,” Doc finally said, softly.

“When are you gonna ask?” Marty wanted to know, most of his attention seemingly focused on the desktop.

“I’m not sure. Not immediately. I should probably purchase a ring... and I need to figure out how, precisely, to ask the question. Maybe in early November -- November fifth! No, wait, that’s a Thursday. Maybe Friday, the sixth....”

“Are you sure you’re not moving too fast on this?” Marty asked. “You’ve only known her a month.”

Doc smiled faintly. “There was never a more perfect person made for someone like me,” he said. “I’ll admit I was skeptical at that love at first sight concept, but I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. There’s no doubt in my mind about my feelings for Clara, Marty.”

Marty sighed. “Then you better hope she says yes.”

“Marty?”

The voice was distant, soft. Marty barely perceived it, at least consciously.

But then something shook his shoulder. “Marty, wake up.”

He tried to say something along the lines of “What?”, but the word came out garbled and muffled through his pillow, pressed under his cheek and most of his mouth.

More shaking from above. “Marty?”

Marty raised his head up a quarter inch without opening his eyes, trying to speak again. “What?” he mumbled, still more asleep than awake.

“Open your eyes -- there’s something important you should see.”

Marty cracked his eyes open a slit, too befuddled to think of putting up a fight. Doc was leaning in close, the glow of a lamp turned down low, shining from behind his back. The inventor was holding something small in his hand -- a pocket watch, Marty deduced after a moment.

“The watch?” he asked, not getting it.

Doc shook his head, a smile on his face. “It’s October 26th,” he said. “1:16 A.M. right now. We are five minutes shy of the negative hundred year anniversary of the first successful time travel experiment.”

Marty blinked once, slowly, not entirely understanding. “Huh?”

“One hundred years from now, I sent Einstein into the future one minute,” Doc said, his gaze growing distant as he recalled the event.

Marty groaned softly, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “Great, the moment my life started going downhill.”

“No, it was a moment of great and historical importance for the scientific community,” Doc murmured, not noticing Marty’s negative reaction. “Though I suppose no one else is privy to that knowledge, aside from you, Einie, Clara, and Jennifer.”

“And Biff Tannen,” Marty muttered, closing his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to sleep through the anniversary minute. It wasn’t a celebratory moment for him.

His new life here had fallen into a tedious and predictable pattern lately for Marty. Get up at dawn, then slave over a hot forge all day, helping Doc with any number of little tasks -- shaping metal, shoeing horses, repairing wagons, and so on. Most of Marty’s jobs were in the assistant realm, passing tools, holding things, fetching supplies, that sort of thing. He didn’t really mind, or care; as if he knew much about blacksmithing! It constantly surprised him, however, that Doc knew as much as he did. Marty wondered if he would share in some of the basic knowledge much better after being around ten months himself. But that thought depressed him; he could hardly deal with the fact that he had to be around 1885 another day.

After it got dark out, and Doc closed up shop for the day, the inventor would prepare a basic meal on the stove. Then, driven by boredom, cold (because the weather was definitely in a fall state of mind, and the livery stable had virtually no insulation to speak of), and a physical exhaustion that still caught him off guard, Marty would usually go to bed.

Not that he was sleeping all that well. The insomnia that he had been suffering from in September wasn’t quite present anymore. The running around all day was probably helpful in that regard. But he didn’t ever wake feeling refreshed anymore -- he felt as if he had spent the entire night tossing and turning, running from monsters in his dreams. Whether or not he was indeed having nightmares, he couldn’t say; Marty wasn’t remembering anything about dreams, but he was sure that if he was having any, they weren’t good. When awareness would trickle in after another night, before he even opened his eyes, Marty would feel a sick sort of dread in the pit of his stomach. Almost like whatever rest he had gotten had left a bad aftertaste in his body.

Or maybe it was just the times he was in. He wondered if or when he would ever stop feeling that dull ache of disappointment when he opened his eyes and found himself still stuck in purgatory in the past.

Marty was starting to doze again when Doc spoke up once more, shattering the quiet.

“Marty?”

“Hmmm?”

“How have you been feeling lately?”

The question was thoroughly unexpected. Marty opened his eyes, wondering if maybe he’d fallen asleep and missed something -- the passage of more than a minute or so, a conversation that Doc had started and he hadn’t heard. He stared at the scientist a moment, wondering what brought this on. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Doc frowned faintly. “Essentially what I said.”

Marty was still confused. “You mean how am I feeling physically?” He yawned. “I’m not getting sick -- even if this place is drafty as hell.”

“No, I’m speaking more of your psychological health. You’re still having trouble adjusting?”

Marty snorted, closing his eyes again. “No, I’ve got that under control now,” he said, slightly sarcastic.

Doc was silent a minute. “You seem to be a bit preoccupied lately.”

Marty frowned, not opening his eyes. “I’d rather be home now,” he said. “That’s pretty much it.” He pulled the blankets over his head, hoping that Doc would take the hint and drop the subject. He didn’t, of course.

“Is that all?” he asked. When Marty chose not to answer -- remaining quiet, hoping to prolong it enough so Doc would move on and let him try to get more sleep -- the inventor added, “Are you aware that you’ve been talking in your sleep?”

That got his attention. He pulled the blankets down a few inches, opening his eyes to peer up at the inventor. Marty thought -- or hoped -- that it was a joke, that Doc couldn’t be serious. But he certainly looked like he was. “No,” he said cautiously, suddenly nervous. “What have I been saying?”

“Repetition of the same general words,” Doc said. “’No,’ for example, seems to be a particular favorite. I’ve also heard you murmur things about home, Jennifer, my name a few times... and Clara’s.”

Marty felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up. For a quick second he had the oddest sense of deja vu, could almost but not quite remember the dreams he’d been having every night. Then it was gone, and he simply felt... exposed. He closed his eyes again, ready to feign another attempt at sleep -- though he suddenly felt sickeningly wide awake. “Oh,” he murmured.

“I know I’ve asked you this before,” Doc began, sounding tentative, “but how do you feel about Clara?”

“Yeah, Doc, you have asked me this before,” Marty agreed, opening his eyes once more, edgy. “Practically every other day. And I told you before what I thought.” He was sick of the question.

Doc gave him a rather intense stare, the kind that seemed to Marty as if he was trying to read his mind. “If you dislike her, I won’t be offended,” he said softly.

Marty sighed, resisting the urge to pull the blankets over his head again. “I don’t hate her, Doc,” he said flatly -- which was the truth.

Doc didn’t say anything to that, waiting. When Marty offered no more, he finally broke the silence.

“I was going to go to Sacramento in a few days,” he said, the topic change coming from nowhere. “Did you want to accompany me?”

Marty was intrigued in spite of himself. “Why are you going out there?”

“I need to find an engagement ring for Clara,” Doc explained, suddenly looking nervous. “The trip would take two days -- it’s a good three hour journey one way.”

And back home it was just an hour or so by car, Marty thought, a fresh wave of homesickness socking him. “Yeah,” he said, “that sounds fun. Clara’s not coming, I guess?”

“No,” Doc confirmed. “She is not.”

Marty was quietly pleased with the news -- and as Doc stood, looking at his watch, he had a stunning realization.

This will probably be the last time me and Doc do something without her around. Because days later, the inventor would propose -- and then, from there on, Doc would be part of a matched set.

Marty’s mouth went dry, though this realization was nothing new. He swallowed hard, then opened his mouth to ask Doc about that, about what would happen to them, to him, then.

“One twenty-one A.M., now.... This is the moment,” he said softly, glancing at the teen.

The words froze shy of Marty’s lips, catching in his throat. This wasn’t a good time, he knew. It was too late, Doc was too preoccupied with other things. He closed his mouth and managed a faint smile for his friend.

“Great,” he said. “Happy future anniversary, I guess. But it’s late, Doc.”

The scientist bobbed his head in a nod a second later. His questions would have to wait -- again. “Yes. Sorry I woke you, Marty. I just thought that, perhaps, you might want to share this moment with me.”

Marty felt faintly sick again when he realized that such moments would soon be shared with Clara, for the most part. “Thanks,” he said softly. He stopped the inventor as he reached over to snuff out the lamp. “And Doc? Next time you hear me saying stuff in my sleep? Can you just wake me up?”

Doc hesitated a moment as he reached for the knob of the wick. “Wake you?” he echoed. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah -- just do it, I don’t care.”

Doc stared at him a moment, his expression giving no clue as to what he was thinking then. “All right,” he finally said. “If you’re certain. Good night, Marty.”

“’Night, Doc.”

He pulled the blankets over his head as Doc took care of the light. Marty didn’t want to think about things anymore, about the shambles of his life, about the extreme changes on the verge. He didn’t even want to ask Doc about the bad things he was thinking about because... because what if they turned out to be true?

The train to Sacramento left Hill Valley at 8 A.M. Marty felt a little funny as he and Doc gave their tickets to the porter and boarded the passenger car. He wasn’t aware that his nerves, or whatever they were, were so obvious until Doc made a comment about it after they took their seats on the wine colored padded benches.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”

Marty shrugged, rubbing his forehead. “Is this the same train that we, uh... borrowed a few weeks ago?” He spoke quietly, lest anyone overhear. Not that that would be a problem, since people were chattering and getting settled, still.

“Not the same locomotive engine,” Doc said, also keeping his voice pitched low. “Whether or not there are the same passenger cars, I cannot say. But I do believe it’s a similar route. Clara told me she bought a ticket to San Francisco on the train we did, ah, borrow, and this train will eventually wind up there, traveling due west.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. It didn’t make any difference. Rain fell in cold misty layers beyond the window glass. Marty was glad they’d stay in a hotel that the night -- the next train to Hill Valley from Sacramento wasn’t until late the following afternoon. He wondered how Doc had managed to avoid coming down with pneumonia or something the previous winter, living in the leaky stable as he had.

“I guess this is the first time I’ve been on one of these things since the accident,” Marty said, looking about the passenger car. Above their heads were shelves of cord to stow luggage. The walls were paneled by a dark wood, and brass gas lamps were fastened every three windows. All the windows had individual shades, which could be closed with a tug of a cord. Marty guessed this was pretty comfortable travel for the times, but he had a feeling that by the time they reached their destination he would be more than happy to depart.

“How fast will we be going?” he asked. Marty recalled, vaguely, speaking to the engineer when he and Doc were investigating ways to get the DeLorean up to eighty-eight. But that had been extreme speeds, looking at whether or not it was even feasible to get a steam train up to that speed. Not normal traveling speeds.

“I think anywhere from forty to forty-five,” Doc said.

That seemed ungodly slow to Marty. “That’s it? Even freeways start at fifty-five....”

“Yes, but automobiles don’t weigh nearly as much as a steam locomotive and train passenger cars,” Doc said softly. “And these vehicles are powered by steam, not gasoline, making it more difficult to achieve a prolonged high speed.”

“But you were going to get the train up to eighty-eight, right? Without gas?” Marty’s memories of that day, September seventh, were hazy at best, completely missing and blank at worst. He couldn’t remember anything, really, after the showdown with Buford Tannen. He thought -- or assumed, maybe -- that Doc had some way to get the train up to that kind of high speed, but....

“Yes,” Doc said. “The presto logs -- remember? I use those in the forge, normally, but those would’ve worked fine if the engine hadn’t derailed.”

If, Marty thought, hating that little word. Outside there was the brief blast of a whistle, and a vibration that the teen felt through the seats. Marty’s heart give a fluttery little skip. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the armrest next to the wall, tightening them into a strong grip. Doc noticed the maneuver and gave him a brief smile, patting his arm.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, lowering his voice once more. “I imagine that if this train met with an unfortunate end, it would have been reported in the news media.”

“Yeah, but would you even notice something like that?” Marty muttered under his breath, annoyed at himself for being so anxious about the train ride. He wasn’t normally like this. “So since gas isn’t around now, does that mean you gotta use steam in the new machine?”

“That’s the most logical and likely source,” Doc said. “There isn’t much else available now that can provide the amount of energy necessary to achieve that speed.”

They lurched forward without warning, startling Marty, who found himself gripping the armrest all over again. He held his body tense as they car began it’s forward motion, slowly. As they gradually picked up speed, and nothing happened, he exhaled slowly, turning his eyes from the window to look at the inventor next to him. To Doc’s credit, he wasn’t gawking at his friend’s reaction. Instead, he was reading the day’s edition of the Hill Valley Telegraph. Marty had noticed he had bought one of those right before they boarded the train, commenting that the ride would be a long one. The teen hadn’t realized just how long until now -- he mentally calculated their average speed, and the distance that they were from Sacramento and winced. That would be a couple solid hours of traveling.

And that’s if we don’t make any stops....

Which, Marty realized, was probably a foolish fantasy. “Doc, are we going to be stopping a lot?” he asked. “At other towns?”

Doc took a minute to answer. “On the journey out?” he asked, his eyes not leaving the page of the newspaper. “Oh, yes. We won’t reach Sacramento until around noon -- if there are no delays.”

Marty sighed, resting his forehead on the cool windowglass. “Perfect,” he muttered.

Marty felt nervous as he watched Doc fix his tie in the mirror, readying the finishing touches for his date with Clara. This was The Night, the big one which would almost certainly conclude with the couple engaged. The ring had arrived on time on Wednesday, in perfect shape. Doc had successfully purchased a new suit in Sacramento. (Along with several changes of clothes for Marty for the forthcoming winter months.) The scientist had even set up a private dinner in a room of the boarding house down the street, confiding his plans to the landlady, who was sworn to secrecy. Marty had done his part by tracking down some flowers for Doc to bestow to Clara, which wasn’t as easy as it sounded, now. Fall had firmly settled down over Hill Valley, bringing bitterly cold nights and damp days. There were no florists in town that had bustles of flowers to sell like back home. Marty had finally gained some assistance from the wife of the town doctor, who kept a small garden behind her home with herbs and stuff. The subsequent bouquet wasn’t terribly impressive, but it would do -- and it smelled great.

“You have the ring?” Marty asked, thinking that would be just like Doc, to forget something so key and so obvious.

“Of course,” Doc said, absently patting the bulge in the pocket of his overcoat. He frowned at his reflection in the mirror, worry lines snaking across his forehead and creasing the corners of his eyes. For a moment he looked older than his chronological age, not younger. “Everything should be successfully arranged,” he added, turning around to regard Marty. “Do I look suitable for a marriage proposal?”

Marty eyed him critically, then nodded his approval. “Yeah. You look... nice. Different.”

It wasn’t an insult -- in a brand new, freshly pressed suit, hair neatly combed and slicked back, and a much less manic demeanor at the moment, Doc seemed a bit unlike himself. It just seemed kind of weird to Marty, and it was clearly odd to the inventor as well. He looked a bit ill at ease.

Of course, maybe it wasn’t just the attire.

Doc tugged at his collar. “I’ve never felt so nervous in my entire life,” he confessed. “Not even when I sent you through time in 1955.”

“You’ll be fine, Doc. Just be yourself -- or she’s gonna know something is up.”

“Yes, well...” Doc smoothed out his coat, then looked at the clock on the wall nearby. “I’d better be on my way. I told Clara I would pick her up at seven. We’re expected for dinner at seven-thirty.”

Marty took a deep breath. This was it, then. “Well... good luck,” he said softly, mustering a smile.

Doc nodded once, clapping him on the arm. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll need it.”

“No, you’ll be okay,” Marty said. He couldn’t imagine that Clara would say no -- and he didn’t want to. Not because he was counting on her and Doc getting hitched, but because he didn’t particularly want to get his hopes up in case they did end up together.

Marty frowned faintly, not happy about his feelings. He felt like a jerk, secretly hoping for his friend’s disappointment and unhappiness.

Doc smiled at him one more time, not noticing the teen’s melancholy. “I hope so,” he said. He donned his hat -- also bought new for the occasion -- and headed outside, to hitch one of the horses up to his wagon for the trip. Marty remained standing where he was for a couple minutes, not moving, his eyes locked on the doors. A rush of emotions churned in his stomach; he couldn’t tell if he wanted to scream or cry. He did neither, remaining still instead, trying to get a grip on things.

Okay, he thought. It’s okay. So the doc’s gonna get married. No biggie. He could do worse than Clara -- and you know it. So stuff’s gonna change around here. It had to at some point.

He finally sighed, breaking his paralysis, and drifted uneasily around the room. He hated being alone in this time. His mind would drift to the things he didn’t want to think about now, depressing him all the more. He killed some time by pulling out the time machine plans, flipped through those for a while. And, noticing that Doc hadn’t made much progress on them (big surprise), filed them away again feeling more cranky and out of sorts.

Well, he finally figured, who says I have to stay here?

Marty came to a decision. He put on his coat and hat, then headed outside, determined to distract himself in some way. Screw Doc’s numerous warnings at keeping to himself -- he sure as hell wasn’t putting on the best example in the world for that.

Although it was early evening, with sunset so recent, the only business that didn’t appear to be shutting down for the night -- on the contrary, in fact -- was the Palace Saloon and Hotel. Marty veered in that direction, following the lights and the chatter and laughter he could hear on the cool night air. He would be welcomed there, he knew. Ever since he had faced off with Buford Tannen he’d found he had friends around every corner -- though he rarely was able to spend time with anyone in particular, between Doc’s paranoia and the simple acts of day to day living.

The teen stepped through the swinging doors, warm air rushing forward to greet him -- along with the cheerful sounds of the piano and the smells of alcohol, cigars, and cigarettes. A few heads turned at his arrival, cursory noting his presence, but beyond that there was no reaction. Marty realized he had half expected things to stop dead with him walking in there -- maybe because he really hadn’t visited the Palace Saloon since that fateful day in September.

The bartender, Chester, gave him a smile as he stepped forward, up to the bar. “Evenin’ Mr. Eastwood,” he said. “What brings you to the Palace tonight?”

Marty shrugged. “I just wanted some company, I guess....”

Chester nodded once. “Are Emmett and Miss Clayton spending time together again?”

“Yeah, they’re having dinner.” He didn’t bother to elaborate as to the rest of the news; it would get out when it got out. Besides, Clara could still turn Doc down, even though Marty thought it was a sketchy possibility at best.

“Ah, well, they seem to be happy together,” Chester said. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Marty hadn’t intended to get anything -- he wasn’t even hungry, really, though he hadn’t had dinner yet -- but the bottles behind the counter suddenly caught his eye and he considered. He wasn’t underage here, a matter that still took him a bit off guard if he really thought about it. It wasn’t as if he’d get in trouble for having a drink. Alcohol in general did have a few unpleasant associations for him, reminding him of his mother’s problem with it from Before he went back in time. But, hell, if there was ever a time where he needed a drink, this was definitely one of them.

“Sure,” he said. “Give me a shot of... uh, whiskey, I guess. Nothing that’ll smoke the bartop, though, okay?” he added quickly, remembering that particular incident on his first day in town.

Chester paused a moment, staring at him. For a minute Marty thought he would be turned down. “You sure? Whiskey’s mighty strong....”

“I can handle it,” Marty said, testy.

“All right, then.” Chester pulled out a shotglass and a bottle from underneath the countertop. He poured the amber liquid into the shotglass, then corked it and set it beside the drink. Marty picked it up, eyeing it for a moment in the light of the gas lamps, trying to decide if it was okay to drink.

Other people are knocking it back... and isn’t alcohol supposed to be anteseptic, kill germs and that kind of thing?

Marty decided he needed to stop being a chicken -- about this, anyway. He raised the glass to his lips and tilted his head back, letting the liquid slide down his throat. It burned a path to his stomach; his eyes watered a little. He swallowed hard a few times, trying not to cough, and set the empty glass back on the bartop.

“Can I get another?” he asked.

The dinner went smoothly -- and fast. Too fast, in Doc’s opinion. It wasn’t that he was not enjoying the meal -- he was -- but he knew that when the food had been consumed, it would be his turn to ask the question that had been waiting all night.

And Clara sensed something was up. But how could she not? This wasn’t a typical date by any means, and Doc was so knotted up inside with the nerves that he could barely eat half of what was on his plate. When William had cleared their plates, and left them alone, Clara looked at him almost expectantly.

“That was a pleasant meal,” she said.

“It’s not over yet,” Doc said. He wiped his sweaty palms off on his slacks under the table, his heart already skipping over beats.

“Oh? Are they bringing dessert?”

The moment of truth had arrived. Doc smiled across the table at the schoolteacher as he reached into his pocket with his free hand. His fingernails scratched against the velvet box as he pulled it out and hid it under the tablecloth. “In a manner of speaking,” he said as he fumbled around to open the box. He wanted to present the ring to her in it’s full glory. If the damned thing would just ease open....

The box suddenly leapt out of his fingers, bounced off his knee, and then clattered to the ground. Clara’s brows drew together at the sound. “What was that?” she asked.

Doc blinked once. “Nothing,” he said, as innocently as possible -- then plunged down on his hands and knees under the table, trying to find the box.

“Emmett?”

Doc reached out -- and felt something move. Clara’s foot. “Whoops, sorry,” he said. He scooted forward a little, feeling around -- and his knee bumped something hard and small. The box. He snatched it up in his hand, then started to get up -- and slammed his head into the underside of the table. Hard.

“Damn!” The curse exploded out of his mouth without any forethought. “Sorry,” Doc added, wincing as he emerged from under the tablecloth, rubbing the top of his head.

“What on earth is going on?” Clara asked, looking both concerned and confused.

The inventor tried to smooth out his hair, standing on end from the static cling of the tablecloth fabric. “Well, uh...” he muttered, trying to think of a reasonable answer. “I dropped something.”

“So I gathered,” Clara said dryly.

Doc looked up at her, then scooted forward until he was on his knees before her. Time to bite the bullet. Time to ask.

“Clara...”

The sound of footsteps stopped him. He turned his head and saw William standing in the doorway, a couple plates in hand of what looked to be chocolate cake. “Oh,” their “butler” said. “I’ll just leave these here for you both....” He scurried in, set them on the table, then left without a word.

Doc watched him go, then turned back to Clara and cleared his throat. She was staring at him, what looked like a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice clearly conveying the strain he felt at the moment.

“Sorry? For dropping something under the table?”

“Not just something....” It was now or never. Doc raised his hand and opened his fist, revealing the boxed ring. He held it up to Clara. The amusement drained from her face, and she appeared to pale slightly. Even more nervous now, the inventor began to speak, running quickly through the speech he had already rehearsed several times that day.

“Clara... I know this may seem a bit soon, and I’ll admit it seems fast to me, too. But from the moment I met you, the second I first saw your face, I knew that I never wanted to be with anyone else in my life. That I never cared for anyone as much as I care for you now. I never expected to feel that way about anyone. In fact, I gave up hope a long time ago that I would ever experience anything like this. I can understand if you want to say no to this question... maybe I’m a fool for even asking it, but....” Doc had to pause to swallow; his mouth felt as if it was filled with dust. “Will... well, would you do me the honor of... of....”

“Yes, Emmett.”

The voice seemed to come from far off. The scientist had to blink and focus his eyes on Clara’s face. He couldn’t have heard right. “What?”

Clara broke into a dazzling smile. “I said, yes, Emmett. I would be honored to be your wife.”

“But I - I... are you sure?”

The question was out before Doc could stop it, and he immediately wished he could take it back and bury it somewhere. Are you sure? Great Scott, what was he trying to do? Talk her out of it?

Clara nodded, still beaming.

Doc’s mouth had a mind of it’s own. “But... do you realize all that you’ll be taking on? I’m so much older than you... and, well, we shouldn’t have kids. And there’s Marty to consider, too. I can’t forget about him, you know. Someone needs to watch out for him. And I don’t have all that much money. Not anymore, not here. I’m just a blacksmith.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Clara said firmly. “I love you, Emmett. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Now, if you’ve finished trying to talk me out of my decision, I’d like to try on that ring, please.”

Doc blinked again, looking down at the box in his hand. “Oh! Well, yes, of course.” His hands were shaking again; it took him a moment to pry the jewelry out of the box. Clara extended her left hand and, taking it into his own, Doc gently slipped the ring on her finger.

The couple stared at it for a moment, silently. “It’s lovely,” Clara said, turning her hand a bit. The candlelight caught it, made it glitter like something much more expensive than it was. “I love amethysts. How did you know?”

Doc shrugged, still on his knees. “The color made me think of you,” he confessed. “Do you really want to marry me? Are you absolutely sure?”

And if he had any doubts as to the matter of that question, the kiss that Clara gave him then put them all to rest.

Doc beamed as he said those two little words that Marty had been dreading for weeks: “I do.”

“And do you, Clara Clayton, take Emmett Brown to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for better or for worse, until death do you part?”

Clara returned Doc’s happy, loving gaze. “I do.”

The priest raised his hands heavenward. “Then I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Marty nervously watched their mouths meet, standing just a couple feet away from the both of them. When they broke apart, they spent a moment gazing into each other’s eyes, sappy grins on their faces. It was almost sickening, and in fact he did feel slightly ill viewing it all.

He felt sicker, though, when they both turned their heads to look at him. Clara frowned, wrinkling her nose. “What do we do with him, now?” she asked. “You don’t honestly want him around us all the time, do you?”

Doc frowned faintly at his new bride. “Now, Clara, Marty’s my friend.... I can’t abandon him because I’m a married man.”

Clara folded her arms across her chest, tucking her bridal bouquet in the crook of her arm. “But you have me now,” she said. “What do you need him for?”

“He’s my friend.”

The schoolteacher batted her lashes at Doc. “But aren’t I, too? I’m not only your friend, I’m now your wife. You can’t have us both in your life.”

Doc continued to frown, looking at Clara with clear hurt and surprise. Marty held his breath as he waited for the scientist’s answer. Doc had known him for a few years. Surely that had to count for something. And it was because of him that Marty was even here in the first place. He wouldn’t be tossed aside over a woman... would he?

“Well....” Doc sighed, then turned to Marty. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Marty’s jaw dropped. “What?” he half whispered. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Clara shook her head. “No, he’s not,” she said, matter-of-factly. “It’s time for you to leave us alone, now. Your friend is a married man; he has no time for you.”

Marty blinked a few times, still in a state of disbelief. Clara’s face remained stony; Doc turned away and looked at the ceiling instead, clearly uncomfortable. “Okay,” the teen finally murmured, realizing he was not wanted. “Okay, I’m outta here.”

He turned to walk away, the back of his throat aching, like he was going to cry. In his haste to get out, he stumbled on the way out of the church, toppling towards an empty pew. He reached out to catch himself -- but the scene around him abruptly shattered, dissolving. A throbbing pain snaked through his skull, and for a disoriented moment he thought he struck his head on the wood as he fell.

“Oooohh,” he groaned softly. Marty reached up to touch his forehead, finding it hard to move. Blankets were on top of him, he realized after a moment. Other sensations trickled in during the next few seconds. His mouth was incredibly dry, the back of his throat hurting in protest. There was a swimmy sensation in his head, and he felt faintly nauseated.

All this before he even opened his eyes.

Am I sick? Marty wondered, thoroughly disoriented. He opened his eyes, squinting heavily, and found himself looking into the depths of an empty wooden bucket. His head was hanging down, he realized, off the side of his bed. He raised it up, for a look around, and felt even sicker.

“Oh, God....”

The room swam around him and the ache in his head escalated. He rolled onto his back and shut his eyes, pressing the palm of one hand over his eyes. After a moment the headache eased up, marginally. Marty took a couple of deep breaths, craving water like he never had before. He wasn’t even going to try to get up, though.

“Doc?” he called out feebly, wondering if the inventor was lurking nearby.

He heard a noise from nearby -- movement, definitely. Footsteps slowly approaching where he lay. “Yes, what is it?” Doc asked a moment later, his voice rather gruff.

Marty cracked one eye open and peered out from between his fingers. The shafts of daylight slipping through the windows and the cracks in the ceiling hurt his eyes. He saw Doc’s face bend over him, frowning and looking faintly irritated. The teen wondered if he had woken him up.

“I think I’m sick,” he moaned. “Maybe the flu.... God, I’m thirsty.”

“It’s not the flu,” Doc said, his voice still oddly flat. He vanished from sight, returning a minute later with a glass of water in hand. “If you can manage to sit up, you should drink this. It’s no wonder you’re feeling dehydrated.”

The thirst was almost painful. Marty cautiously removed his hand from his face, risking both eyes opened and the pain that provoked. He reached out for the glass, but Doc held it teasingly just out of reach. “Sit up,” he said.

Marty frowned, annoyed, but even he knew that drinking from flat on his back was all but impossible. He took a deep breath and carefully raised himself up to his elbows. The room spun sickeningly for a moment before it stabilized, and he was reminded of the first few days following the accident back in September. His headache worsened briefly and he grimaced. Doc studied him as he handed him the water. Marty almost spilled it in his haste to get it in his mouth. He started to gulp it down, greedily, his eyes half closed.

“Take it easy,” Doc warned. “You’re drinking that far too fast. You’ll make yourself sick again.”

Again? Marty reached the bottom of the glass a couple seconds later, gasping a little. “Again?” he repeated, confused. “What do you mean, again?”

Doc narrowed his eyes as he sat at the end of the cot. “How much do you remember of last night?”

Marty’s stomach suddenly cramped up. The water had reached it’s goal, and it clearly wasn’t a good thing. He swallowed hard, hoping that the nausea would pass. Doc was still staring at him, waiting for an answer. “Uh... I dunno.” Something, maybe the hazy, half remembrances of the dream, came back to him. “Are you and Clara getting married?”

Doc stared at him a moment before answering. “Yes. She accepted my proposal last night.”

“Oh,” Marty muttered, a hand to his stomach. “That’s good.” He definitely felt like he was going to be sick.

Ten seconds later his head was bent over the bucket as his stomach effectively rejected all the water he had just consumed. Doc remained sitting where he was, and when Marty finally raised his head, desiring death as a viable alternative to life at that moment, he offered no words of empathy.

“Well,” he said instead, “at least you didn’t make a mess of it this time.”

Marty blinked, his eyes watering from the unnatural exertion of his body. “This time?” he gasped hoarsely, confused. He rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. God, his head ached.

“Yes,” Doc said, a faint edge to his voice. “You vomited all over the suit I wore last night. I think it’s ruined.”

Marty moaned, having no memory of that at the moment. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I think I’m dying.... Maybe you should get the doctor.”

The inventor snorted once, softly. “There’s very little he can do for an alcoholic hangover.”

Marty licked his dry, cracked lips. “Hangover?” he murmured -- and then it all came back to him. Well... not all of it -- his memory had some strange gaps in it -- but he remembered going to the Palace Saloon the night before, Doc leaving him behind to ask Clara to marry him. He remembered drinking shots... how many was kind of a blur. And hadn’t Seamus McFly come in there at some point, or was his brain cross-wiring the night before with something else?

Oh, God -- I was drunk last night! No wonder Doc is pissed.

Doc didn’t realize that the pieces had finally fallen into place for Marty. “Yes, hangover,” he said, definitely sounding annoyed. “Seamus McFly brought you here when I arrived; you could barely stand of your own accord. What you’re experiencing now is nothing more deadly than the physiological reaction a body has when purifying the alcoholic toxins from the body. Uncomfortable, perhaps, but you’ll live.”

Doc stood up -- Marty could feel his weight shift off the cot -- and picked up the bucket, heading off without another word. The teen remained where he was, feeling too miserable to move. The headache, the dizziness, the nausea.... And stuck in a time before they had over-the-counter meds that could take an edge off the symptoms. “Oh, man....”

Doc returned a few minutes later, setting the presumably now-cleaned bucket beside the bed once more. The clatter of it irritated the ache in Marty’s head and he raised his arm enough to peer out from under it, squinting at Doc standing beside the bed. “Isn’t there anything that can help this?” he asked.

“Water,” Doc said. He plucked the empty glass from where Marty had dropped it on the blankets. “Sipped, not gulped. And time.”

That sounded lousy. Doc returned a couple minutes later with a full glass and a damp rag, advising Marty to put the latter it over his eyes to help the headache. Marty followed the directions after taking a few careful sips of the water, now suitably nervous about upsetting his stomach again. He still wished for... well, if not death, then something that would give him temporary oblivion. Sleep -- he would settle for sleep.

Any hope of that happening was shattered a few minutes later, by the most Godawful banging noise. Marty clenched his teeth together, the metallic clangs bringing renewed pain to his tender head. He recognized the noise without looking -- Doc was shaping something on the anvil. When there was a pause in the labor, he couldn’t help but speak up.

“Do you have to do that now?” he asked, his irritation clear in his voice. “It feels like little needles of pain.”

Doc’s voice drifted over to him from the work area. “I can’t stop working on the count of your physical state. I’m sorry that there’s no way to conceal the noise, but I’ve got to use the hammer today. Three horses need shoes.”

Marty scowled, though Doc couldn’t see the expression. “Perfect,” he muttered. He rolled over, grabbing the pillow and pulling it over his head in a fruitless attempt to muffle the sounds from the forge.

After a few minutes of banging, the inventor stopped. Marty listened to the blessed silence, too happy to really wonder what was the cause of the hold up. After a moment, however, he realized he could hear voices. Curious in spite of his aches, he loosened his grip on the pillow, sliding the bulk of the padding off his ear.

“...Since last night,” he heard Clara said. “I sent a telegram off to my family in New Jersey, but I haven’t yet spoken with the pastor about the ceremony. I did let Daniel Wilson know, however.”

The name was unfamiliar to Marty’s ears, but Doc’s reaction made it clear he knew exactly who the man was. “Wilson! But he’ll tell everybody.”

Clara sounded faintly wounded. “Well, yes.... I wasn’t aware that we had to keep this a secret.”

“No... no, not at all. He’ll just.... He’ll print an announcement in the Telegraph.”

“Is that a problem?”

There was a pause. “It could be. Our engagement was never announced in my history, Clara. The newspaper is archived in the future. Someone could see that.”

“Oh, well....” Now Clara sounded flustered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Well.... It’s all right. As long as they won’t print a photograph with the announcement. The name could be explained away as a coincidence, I suppose.”

There was another pause. Marty wondered if they were kissing. His dream came back to him with that thought and he shivered, chilled.

“Where’s Marty?” Clara eventually asked. “How did he take to your news?”

Doc snorted softly. “Marty apparently visited the Palace Saloon last night. When I arrived home, he was intoxicated. Seamus McFly had to help him over here.”

Marty felt worse hearing the scorn in his friend’s voice, but he couldn’t not continue listening. It surprised and hurt him a bit that Doc was speaking so candidly to Clara while he was most definitely in earshot. The inventor had to know that... right?

“Oh dear,” Clara said, sounding more sympathetic than her fiancé. “How is he this morning?”

“He’ll live. It’s his own fault, and I think he knows that.”

“Does he normally do things like that?”

“What? Drink? No, not in the time I’ve known him. Unless you’re keeping that habit concealed from me,” Doc added, raising his voice to clearly address the teenager.

Marty let the pillow fall from his head. There was no use anymore pretending he wasn’t listening to the conversation. “No,” he said, the word hurting his head. He risked opening his eyes for a look and saw both the Doc and Clara standing near the doors, staring at him. Clara looked faintly startled; maybe she hadn’t known he was in the same room. “I’d never tried this before... not really.”

“It’s foolish,” Doc said.

“I know,” Marty half whispered, thinking of his mom from Before. He suddenly felt so homesick he wanted to cry. Maybe his parents were better now -- happier and healthier and more respectable -- but if he remembered the way things were previously, it would be like living with strangers. If he ever got back there again.

Something in his face or voice seemed to touch the scientist. Doc’s face softened for the first time that morning and he looked at Clara. “Are you aware of any contemporary remedies for hangovers? I’ve tried a few of them, unfortunately, but I’ve found them to often make the problem worse, or do nothing at all.”

“I’m not sure,” Clara said after a moment. “If anyone would know it might be the bartender.”

Doc’s lip curled back. “Yes,” he muttered. “With something akin to ‘wake up juice.’ I don’t think Marty should be subjected to a cure like that.”

Having watched the bartender make that particular beverage, and seen Doc’s reaction to it on that fateful day in September, Marty was quite inclined to agree.

“If his stomach is upset, adding ginger to water may help,” Clara said. “And tea with willow bark.”

“Yes, those,” Doc said, half to himself, in such a way that Marty got the impression he was aware of these natural sort of cures. “Are you up for those, Marty?”

“Anything’s better than the way I feel now.”

Clara went off to fetch the needed ingredients for the beverages. Doc watched her go, then headed for the cot side, his face serious. “We need to talk about something, Marty.”

The last thing the teen felt like doing was having a serious chat. He sighed. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” Doc leaned against one of the worktables. “Clara and I are engaged.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Congratulations, I guess.”

“She’s a wonderful woman, Marty. Kind, intelligent, beautiful--”

“Look, spare me the sappy stuff. I get the idea.”

Doc’s lips tightened together to almost, not quite, form a smile. “All right. I know you don’t approve, Marty. But if you just get to know Clara, spend some time with her--”

Marty resisted the urge to pull the blankets over his head, in what he knew would be a completely ineffective effort to avoid the mini-lecture from his friend. “You’ve told me this before, Doc.”

“And you have done nothing to give me the impression that my words are being acknowledged.” Doc paused a minute, then seemed to get to the point of what he really wanted to say. “Last night, while you were inebriated, you said a few things to me.”

Marty felt his stomach give a lazy roll at the words, though the sensation had nothing to do with his alcoholic binge. His memory wasn’t thoroughly clear about the previous evening’s events -- not by a long shot. “Did it make any sense?” he asked, wary.

Doc made an odd sort of face. “Yes, a great deal. I know you’re feeling out of place here, Marty. And it must be strange for you to get used to the idea of... well, sharing me with someone. You’ve been pretty much my only friend for years. But nothing will change with my marrying Clara -- I may be happier, and feel less lonely, but our friendship won’t change.”

Yes it will, Marty thought, restraining himself from blurting out those very words. Everything’s gonna change... especially once you’ve got a wife. “So when’s the wedding?” he asked lightly.

The inventor looked hurt or irritated; it was difficult to tell immediately. “Soon,” he said, not elaborating. “Marty, I know you’ve heard the question before, but I want you to answer it one more time, and truthfully: What do you think of Clara? Do you think she’s not good enough for me?”

Marty closed his eyes a moment, wishing he could just escape from this very moment of time right now. Why did Doc have to talk to him about this stuff when he already felt lousy? “She’s fine, Doc,” he said, keeping his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to look at the scientist as he answered. “You’ll be happy together.”

“Do you think I’m making a mistake getting married? You said as much last night.”

Had he? Marty wished he could remember at the moment. Maybe once his headache went away, he’d be able to regain some of the hazy and foggy memories from the evening before. “Well, what else can you do with a serious girlfriend here?” he asked, still keeping his eyes closed. “And I guess since she knows about the time machines you’ll have to take her with you if you ever leave.”

There was a weighty kind of silence at Doc’s end. “Not if, Marty. When. When we leave.”

The teen finally opened his eyes again. “Really, Doc?” he asked, faintly sarcastic.

“Marriage is not going to keep me from that goal,” the scientist vowed quietly. “As previously stated, none of us belong here. We need to leave as quickly as we can.”

“It’s been two months,” Marty said, groaning as he put a hand to his head. “That’s two months too long.”

“It’s only been two months,” Doc corrected. “And I’ve been here nine months longer than you. Keep that in mind. So I’m to understand,” he added, changing the subject, “that for all intents and purposes, you have no problems or issues or negative feelings around my marrying Clara? That you are in support of this?”

The words in Marty’s mouth felt awkward and wrong. “Yeah, Doc, sure.” Ditch me, I don’t give a damn.... “I’m fine, I’m glad, it’s great.”

Doc looked at him, one of those scrutinizing, mind reading looks. He opened his mouth to say something -- but Clara returned, then, carrying a brown paper bag in hand. Her arrival effectively concluded the conversation between the two time travelers. “I found the ingredients,” she announced cheerfully, then looked at Marty. “You should feel better in a little while.”

Or worse, Marty thought, cradling his head in his hands as Doc left his side for hers. They would be married in a few weeks? That meant his days with Doc -- or, specifically, with Doc wanting him around -- were numbered.

Everyone knew that three was a crowd.