* * *

“Emmett? Emmett, wake up.”

Emmett Brown opened his eyes, blinking a couple times before he focused on the face of his wife looming above. Clara was pale, her eyes rimmed with dark shadows. For a moment he was not sure where he was. The night before, when Jules had started crying a bit after midnight, he had wound up staying up with the baby until after 4 A.M., when the infant finally fell into an exhausted sleep. He remembered setting the baby down in the cradle and joining his wife in the bedroom. Clara, he recalled, had been awake, unable to sleep as long as her child cried. The couple had exchanged a few words, then Doc joined her in bed.

And now...now it was now, whenever that was.

“What’s wrong?” he muttered, bracing himself for another bout of pacing the floor. But he didn’t hear anything -- he certainly did not hear a baby crying.

“It’s time to get ready for church,” Clara said.

“Church?” Doc croaked, hoping this was a joke. He raised his head off the pillow and looked at the bedside clock, barely visible in the first light of dawn. The time was 6:02 A.M. “Are you sure?”

“It is Sunday,” Clara said. “I’m as exhausted as you, but you know we must be there, especially today. Jules is to be christened, remember?”

Doc closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. It was the small town gossips that made it such a sin to skip church, he knew. If he didn’t go or if Clara didn’t go, there would be talk. Only illness was seen as an acceptable excuse to stay home. Most of the time he didn’t mind going there -- the sense of community was nice, and it was, frankly, the most social event of the week. But in the two months since they’d had the baby, it had become somewhat of an ordeal to make the trip.

Clara was right, however. If their son had his christening today, they absolutely had to be there.

“All right,” he said, opening his eyes. “I’ll deal with Marty if you want to handle Jules.”

“After I get dressed,” Clara said. “I don’t want to disturb the baby now that he’s finally sleeping.”

And I don’t particularly want to disturb Marty, Doc thought, frowning. He sat up with a sigh, pausing a moment to lean over and massage his forehead, which ached dully. He had survived on little sleep before -- sometimes he thrived in spite of a lack of rest -- but there was a difference between remaining awake due to adrenaline or excitement, and being forced awake due to a crying, fussy child.

The inventor lit the bedside lamp and dressed in the required Sunday best. He left Clara, still getting ready, and checked on the baby in the nursery. Jules lay in his cradle on his stomach, covered by a small quilt that the new schoolteacher had sewed for him, sleeping peacefully. Doc watched his son for a moment, seeing the rise and fall of his back, a feeling of amazement and love swelling in his chest. Even after all these days, he still found it difficult to believe that he, Emmett L. Brown, was now a father.

He left the room feeling a little more energized than when he had gone in.

Doc detoured into the kitchen to start the fire in the cast iron stove, and then reluctantly paid a visit to Marty’s bedroom. The door, he saw, was ajar, and the teen was not in bed. He recalled, vaguely, mentioning to his friend that he could use the study to escape the noise, so Doc checked there first. He found Marty curled up on the couch in the room, bundled up in a couple quilts up to his nose. The scientist called his name a couple times, but when that didn’t seem to provoke any reaction, he crossed the floor and gave the lump of quilts a shake.

“Time to get up, now,” he said firmly.

Marty groaned. “Why?” he croaked.

“It’s Sunday. Church.”

“No way,” Marty said flatly. He pulled the blankets over his head.

“Yes way. You know we all need to go -- no excuses. Jules is going to be christened today. You can take a nap when we get home.”

“But I’ve been up all night...”

Doc gritted his teeth a little at the whine in his friend’s voice. “So have Clara and myself,” he said without sympathy. “Get dressed, and by that point I’ll have a strong pot of coffee made.”

“Aw, for cryin’ out loud....”

Doc left his friend in the study. When he reached the end of the hallway, he heard Marty go across the hall into his rightful room and close the door. Good. He just hoped that he wouldn’t simply go back to bed. The inventor didn’t feel up to facing a drawn out battle of wits with a stubborn teenager at that hour of the day.

Clara met him at the foot of the stairs wearing a new lavender gown that she had finished sewing just two weeks before. Her figure, two months after having a baby, already seemed to be almost as small as it had been before, but Doc knew that most of that was due to the corsets women wore now. It amazed him why his wife -- why any woman, for that matter -- would subject herself to that kind of pain and binding simply for fashion.

“Jules is still asleep,” she said. “I’m of a mind to wait until just before we leave to rouse him. He was up so late last night.”

“If you do that, how do you expect to feed him?” Doc asked. “In the carriage? You certainly won’t be able to do it in church.”

“No,” Clara said. “No, of course not.” She sighed and turned, wearily heading up the stairs once more.

Doc took it upon himself to get breakfast started while his wife tended to the baby. Minutes later, he heard Jules start to cry, clearly not appreciating the early morning wake up call. But soon after he lapsed into silence, no doubt because he was being fed.

Marty wandered in just as the coffee finished and took a seat at the table without a word. Doc was pleased to see that he was dressed in his nice clothes. Like Clara, he looked exhausted, faint circles hanging under his eyes. Doc suspected that the same could be found on his own face if he looked in the mirror.

“Here,” Doc said, pouring a cup of coffee. “Drink this.” He set it down before his friend on the table. Marty glanced up at him, looking dazed.

“How long is this gonna go on, Doc?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long is your kid going to be screaming through the night?”

Doc poured himself a generous share of coffee before answering the question. “I’m not sure. I’m told it takes a bit of time before babies sleep through the night.”

“It’s been two months.”

“It’s only been two months,” Doc corrected. He took a long swallow of the hot, bitter brew, grimacing a bit as he lowered the mug. “You’re not expected to participate in tending to him, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t sleep through it.” Marty took a sip from the coffee, wincing from the taste as he set it back down to the table. “If it wasn’t the middle of winter, I’d stay at the shop until this crying all night thing is over.”

“I’m not opposed to your doing that. Actually, if you’d like, you could stay out in the barn. Might be a bit warmer than the shop in town.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Marty looked down into the mouth of the mug.

Clara joined them a short time later carrying the baby in her arms. Jules’ eyes were half closed as he rested his head on Clara’s shoulder. Clara had dressed him into a white gown that she had stitched over the last couple months, complete with a tiny white knit cap. The gown and cap combined to make him look, well....

“He looks like a girl in that,” Marty said, making no pains to be tactful with his assessment. “Why don’t you have him in anything, you know, not a dress?”

“It’s his christening gown, Marty,” Clara explained, unoffended. “They all look like this, don’t they Emmett?”

“They do now,” he agreed.

“All babies wear gowns,” Clara added, as if Marty hadn’t noticed Jules’ attire as of late. “They’re not shortened until they’re able to crawl.” She looked at her husband. “Can you take him so I can finish breakfast.”

“Certainly.”

Doc gently lifted Jules out of his mother’s arms. The baby let out a faint whimper before settling back down, his head heavy on the inventor’s shoulder. By the time Clara set out the servings of oatmeal and toast on the table, Jules was asleep. She whisked him out of Doc’s arms and away to a playpen in the adjacent room, something the scientist had built one afternoon in December. It made it a bit more convenient for her when she was doing household chores or cooking.

The meal was conducted in almost utter silence, as everyone was too tired to really converse. When Doc finished eating, he headed outside to hitch the horses to the carriage and bring it around to the front of the house. He had bought the latter just a few weeks earlier, after the baby was born and it was clear that a better mode of transportation than the buckboard wagon would be required for town outings. It wasn’t covered, however, open to the elements. Marty brought out several warm wool blankets for their laps, and once coats, hats, gloves, and scarves had been donned, the three headed off to town. Clara clutched the baby close during the trip, little Jules wrapped snugly in a couple blankets as protection against the biting wind. The baby woke up during the trip, not surprisingly, and fussed a little, but didn’t start crying as he had been doing the night before.

Church services started at nine A.M. They arrived with just ten minutes to spare, the snow and ice on the roads warranting some caution. Doc let his wife off near the front of the church, sending Marty in with her while he parked the carriage in the field alongside the church. On his way towards the doors, he happened to bump into Seamus McFly, who had just settled his own horse and buggy.

“Emmett!” the farmer said cheerfully. “How’ve you been? How’s the missus?”

“Fine,” Doc said, mustering a smile for the smaller man. “We’re all fine. A little tired from the baby,” he added, knowing that he looked peaked from the lack of rest.

“Ah, he keepin’ you up at night?” Seamus asked with the air of experience. He certainly had that. His son, William, was now 23 months old, and they had a new one at home, a three-month-old little girl named Madeline. “Have you tried givin’ him warm ginger water?”

“I think so. I think we’ve tried just about every suggestion given to us,” Doc said as they reached the steps of the church.

“Well...he’ll outgrow it soon enough, t’be sure. Maddie’s just now settlin’ down for the night. We’re hopin’ once we get the house built that everyone will be sleepin’ better.”

The McFlys, Doc knew, were still squeezed into a tiny two-room cabin. Through the grapevine, the inventor heard that Seamus had paid for a shipment of lumber to arrive in the spring, after the thaw, at which point he planned to start building a frame house beside the cabin. Doc suspected that he might find himself assisting in that project -- it was what the townsfolk did in Hill Valley now -- but the idea made him nervous. He, Clara, and Marty -- William’s great-grandson -- had never been present in the original timeline. Therefore any contributions any of them made towards a new home for the present McFlys could put the entire space-time continuum at risk.

His brain was too tired to start running through possible scenarios of disaster, however. It was barely March; there was still snow on the ground. Seamus was not going to be breaking ground for a month, at least. “I’m sure that will help,” he said in response to the farmer’s comment.

Seamus bid him a goodbye as they entered the church, the small front room crowded with people hanging coats and other clothing that they had worn on the journey. Doc found an empty hook for his overcoat, hat, and scarf, and then headed into the adjacent nave to search for his wife and Marty. He saw them after a moment, sitting in the same pew that they always occupied near the back of the room. (An appropriately inconspicuous place in Doc’s opinion.) Marty, who preferred sitting on the aisle, stood as Doc approached, allowing him to squeeze by and sit between him and Clara.

“How is Jules?” the scientist asked immediately.

“Well, so far,” Clara said, pulling his cap back a little and allowing the inventor to see the blinking eyes of their son. His eyes were a deep, dark blue, but Doc suspected that the color would change in the coming months. The shade seemed much darker than Marty’s eyes, for example. Clara smiled as she glanced down at the baby, giving his back a gentle rub. “He’s much calmer than he was last night. I hope he behaves himself this morning. I would hate to have him scream during the service and christening.”

Doc shared her hope. He didn’t want to attract the ire and attention of most of the townsfolk this morning. The less noticed they could be, the better.

The service began minutes later, and the crowd settled down once the pastor stepped to the podium up front to begin his sermon for the day. The man was fairly new to the area, having arrived the prior September, and Doc supposed he was good enough for his job, but he wasn’t the most engaging of public speakers. After a few minutes, the drone of his voice had a rather soothing, hypnotic effect -- the last thing the scientist needed after a night of little sleep. He sat up straighter and took a deep breath, blinking rapidly and imagining a steaming hot cup of coffee that would await him after the service. A glance to his right and he saw that Clara, too, wore a glazed look on her face. The baby had fallen asleep. That was one good thing about it, Doc supposed.

When he looked to Marty, seated on his left, he found his friend’s head bowed and eyes closed. Doc seriously doubted that he was praying. He gave the teen a sharp, subtle jab in the ribs with his elbow. Marty’s head snapped up and his eyes opened at once. He glanced over at Doc, the look laced with annoyance.

“What?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

“Stay awake,” Doc whispered back.

“I was -- I am.”

Doc gave him a mighty skeptical look. Marty looked away, towards the front of the church, frowning. The inventor sighed and tried to follow the rambling words from the pastor, who was using a theme of charitable acts today. Doc reached into the pocket of his vest and withdrew his pocket watch, doing his best to be subtle as he opened the face and checked the time. 9:21 A.M. The services usually did not end until around ten.

Doc tried to focus his mind on something. Perhaps the new time machine. Yes, that would be an acceptable distraction. Marty’s words late the night before had hit a little too close to home. Since the baby’s birth, he really hadn’t had much time at all to focus on the new machine. He felt only a little guilty about that. Granted, the sooner that it was completed, the sooner they could all leave this time and Doc wouldn’t have to worry so much about every little move he, Clara, Marty, or Jules made, and how it would influence history.

On the other hand, he had been quite busy making the adjustments towards being a father, helping out his wife, keeping the business running and income being generated, and so forth. Marty, in Doc’s opinion, should understand that and be patient. Things would settle down, he was sure...he hoped. And once Jules wasn’t up at night so much, keeping the entire household awake with him, things would get even better.

Doc looked around the room, finding distraction necessary, and once more his eyes settled on Marty. The teen, again, had his head bowed and eyes closed. Remembering his denial last time, the inventor watched him a moment, waiting for him to open his eyes or give any signal that he was simply “resting his eyes” for a moment. None came. In fact, Doc noticed Marty’s breathing had changed, grown deeper and more pronounced.

“Marty,” he murmured under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clara’s head turn to see what was going on.

Marty didn’t move. Well aware that there were eyes all around them -- though, taking a quick look around, Doc was relieved to see that no one seemed to be paying them any mind -- the inventor leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Marty!”

He felt a nudge from his right and turned his head to see Clara. She shook her head faintly. Doc frowned at her, but let it go. He kept one eye on his friend as the service continued. Marty slouched forward by degrees as the minutes passed, his head drooping lower, but no one around them seemed to notice. Doc sent a silent prayer of thanks for their position at the back of the room.

The pastor was getting near the end of things, asking the congregation to take a moment to pray for a few people in town who were in need of it for various reasons. Doc hurriedly bowed his head and closed his eyes. They would be called forward momentarily, he knew, for Jules’ christening. He opened his eyes, his head still bowed, and turned his head enough to glance to his left. Marty hadn’t moved. With everyone distracted, Doc once more planted his elbow firmly in his friend’s side, hoping to jar him awake.

Perhaps he had underestimated how deeply under Marty was. Rather than start up, the nudge pitched him to the left. Doc watched, too surprised to immediately react, as the teen fell diagonally off the seat and towards the aisle. His forehead collided with the back of the pew before them, and then he hit the ground with a weighty thud.

Oh God, Doc thought, horrified, as every single head in the room turned to stare at them.

* * *

Church had never been Marty’s thing. Growing up, he had more or less been dragged until his parents gave up. Since landing in the past, he had pretty much been dragged by Doc because the services were so crucial to stemming tides of gossip and the like. People were more apt to be noticed if they didn’t attend any church than if they did.

It was usually a struggle for him to stay awake during the sermons on a good day. After a night of sketchy sleep, it was downright impossible. Minutes into the pastor’s spiel, he found it too hard to keep his eyes open. It was easier just to close them -- then he could listen better. His thoughts, though, soon drifted so much that he really wasn’t aware of the guy’s monotonous murmur from the front.

When he felt Doc nudge him that first time, he tried to snap back to attention, looking around in hopes of distracting himself from the exhaustion dragging him down. His eyes came to rest on Jules, held in Clara’s arms, and he felt a stir of jealousy in his gut. It wasn’t the first time he had such a feeling, and it usually caught him off guard like now.

No one’s coming down on him for sleeping now, Marty thought enviously. It didn’t seem fair, especially since the baby was the reason they were all so worn out in the first place.

So he decided the hell with it, and stopped trying to fight the inevitable.

The next thing he really knew was that he was on the ground, and there was a horrible, splitting pain above his right eye. He blinked, dazed, and raised his head up. He was lying in the aisleway of the church, on his side. Every single person was staring at him, heads turned and necks craned. The room was quiet; even the pastor had fallen into a shocked silence.

What happened? he wondered dully.

He felt hands on his shoulder a second later, rolling him onto his back. Doc loomed above, his eyes wide and horrified. “Are you all right?” he asked. Although his words were pitched down to a whisper, they nevertheless carried quite well against the vaulted ceiling of the church.

“Uh...uh-huh.” Marty reached up to touch the ache above his right eye. He hissed a breath through his teeth at the pain and drew his hand back quickly. His fingertips, he saw, were stained with a smear of blood.

The silence was dissolving now into whispers and low murmurs. A few men from the congregation had made their way out to the aisleway and peered down at Marty, looking concerned. Doc pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to the teen, who immediately pressed it to the ache above his eye. “He’s fine,” Doc announced to the crowd. “There’s just a bump.”

The scientist bent over and helped Marty to his feet, and then ushered him quickly to the bench that was in the front coatroom of the church. Marty didn’t put up any resistance, still dazed from the sudden transition from dozing in the pew to being splayed out on the floor next to it.

“What happened, Doc?” he asked when they were out of earshot of the congregation. Marty could hear the pastor speaking again, trying to settle the crowd down from the interruption. The scientist closed the door that separated the coat room from the nave and turned around.

“Put your head back,” he said at once. “I want to have a look at that.”

Marty obediently leaned back against the wall and lowered the handkerchief from the wound. The lump was starting to throb now. Doc took the handkerchief from his hand and prodded at the cut, causing Marty to flinch and draw away as much as he could with a wall right behind him.

“Sorry,” Doc said. After a moment he stepped away and handed back the bloodied fabric. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but I’d like the doctor to take a look at it.”

Clara slipped through the doors, Jules held firmly against her chest. The baby didn’t seem at all disturbed by the sudden ruckus. “What happened?” she asked softly, once the door was shut again.

“That’s what I’d like to know!” Marty said.

“You fell asleep,” Doc said, looking down at him. “When I went to nudge you awake for the christening, before people noticed, I’m afraid I knocked you right over. You hit the back of the pew ahead of us here.” He pointed to his right eyebrow where Marty’s cut was located.

Clara clicked her tongue nervously as she leaned over to peer at Marty’s face. “Emmett, I told you not to disturb him.”

Doc turned to regard her with a frown. “I don’t think that the congregation would take very kindly to the idea of him sleeping through the service.”

“Well, no one can fault him for it.” She sighed. “We’re all dreadfully exhausted. I had to pinch myself more than once to stay awake today.”

The inventor made a vague sound, turning back to Marty. “How does your head feel? Are you feeling dizzy? Sick to your stomach?”

“My head hurts, but scratch the other stuff.” He tentatively removed the handkerchief from his forehead and the swiftly swelling lump. “Is it still bleeding?”

“A little. Keep the pressure on it.”

Before he could say much else, the door opened again and the town doctor, William Peterson, slipped into the small room. He glanced at Marty before turning to the scientist. “Did he faint?” he asked.

“I think so,” Doc fibbed smoothly. “He didn’t have breakfast this morning, and we’ve all been a bit tired from the baby…. I’m more concerned about the bump on his head, especially after the accident a couple years ago. Can you take a look at it?”

The doctor nodded as he removed his coat and began to roll back his sleeves. “That’s why I came here,” he said. “Can you fetch me some water, a towel, and a clean washrag?”

Doc went off to get the requested materials. The doctor told Marty to lean back against the wall and lower the handkerchief so he could examine the wound. Once the inventor returned, the doctor dampened the washcloth and gently dabbed at the bump, wiping it clean. Marty closed his eyes, holding his breath against the discomfort during the ordeal.

“I don’t think it is serious,” the doctor said after a moment. “The bleeding is already beginning to slow, but there will be an ugly bump there. Just keep a watch on him today and let me know if anything changes...or if he has any more fainting spells.”

Marty opened his eyes and exhaled as the Dr. Peterson finally moved his hands away from the bump. He handed the teenager the damp rag, instructing him to apply pressure to it just as Doc had done. Next, he turned to look at Clara and the baby. “Your son is keeping you up at night, is he?”

“Yes,” Clara said, not denying it. “He’s very fussy at that time. You don’t think it is anything serious, do you?” she added, suddenly sounding worried.

“No, I doubt it. May I see him a moment?”

Clara passed the doctor the sleeping baby. Jules stirred a little during the transfer before settling back to sleep with a wide, openmouthed yawn. Dr. Peterson cradled him in one arm while his other hand gently examined the baby, poking and prodding. Jules whimpered a little at the treatment, once again threatening to wake.

“I think it may just be colic,” he said after a moment. “Many babies have it. There’s an elixir that might help if you are interested.”

Clara opened her mouth to answer, but Doc cut her off. “No thanks,” he said curtly. “We’ll simply wait until he outgrows it.”

The former teacher turned to her husband, aghast. “Emmett, I think--”

Doc caught her eyes and shook his head once, firmly, before turning back to the doctor. “Thanks for your assessment.”

“You’re welcome.” Dr. Peterson handed Clara back the baby, collected his jacket, and returned to the church service. As soon as the door was closed, Clara turned to address her husband.

“Emmett, why not?”

“Yeah, Doc, why not?” Marty echoed. “If it lets Jules sleep at night, that means we get to sleep through the night. I dunno about you, but I can’t take this much longer.”

Doc shook his head again. “You’ll just have to endure,” he said. “I’m not going to allow our son to be drugged,” he added, looking at Clara. “God knows what’s in so-called ‘patent medicines’ now. Those things often contained weighty doses of alcohol, which are unsafe for children to consume -- especially babies.”

Clara blinked, taken aback by this explanation. “Perhaps it is simply a home medicinal brew,” she said.

“I doubt it. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll do some research and see what I can find that could help him sleep. Something safe,” he emphasized. “But I’m not going to allow the medicines of the time to drug our son simply so we can get some rest. The doctors now have no idea how dangerous that practice is. I do.”

Marty grudgingly saw that Doc had a point. He signed, lowering the handkerchief again. His arm was already getting sore keeping it up there. “Then until you figure this out, Doc, I think I’ll stay out in the lab. I’m getting tired of being tired.”

“That’s fine, but not tonight,” Doc said. “We need to keep an eye on you and that bump.”

Marty made a face, already envisioning yet another night of sketchy rest. The door to the nave once more opened, and a boy of perhaps twelve stuck his head inside the small room. “Are you gonna get ‘im christened t’day?” the kid asked, pointing to Jules. “They’re ready, if you are.”

Doc and Clara looked at each other. “Yes,” the former said after a moment. “We’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’ll stay back here, if that’s all right,” Marty said, not feeling up to the stares he would no doubt get if he returned to the other room.

But Doc shook his head. “You can’t,” he said. “Not if you’re going to be his godfather. You need to be there for the ceremony.”

Marty wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the job Doc and Clara wanted to bestow on him. When Doc had asked him about fulfilling that role for the kid, he had first been flattered and agreed. The more he thought about it, though, the more uneasy it made him. He wasn’t entirely sure what was expected of him in the role, aside from the fact that he was supposed to be some kind of spiritual guide to the kid if something ever happened to Doc or Clara. Marty was able to grasp the symbolism of the gesture, too, in that he would help raise Jules if something happened to his parents...and that was a scenario that the teen did not want to think about. Doc, Marty hated to admit to himself, was not so young anymore, and the medical care here was fairly primitive from his twentieth century perspective.

“Are you sure about that?” Marty asked, hoping his friend was just making a general assumption

“Yes,” Clara said decisively.

And so, minutes later, Marty found himself standing at the front of the church with Doc and Clara. Unlike them, however, or the baby, he was the subject of the most intense scrutiny, perhaps because he had to keep one hand on the handkerchief and keep a pressure on that to stop the cut from oozing blood down the side of his face. He realized, too, halfway though the ceremony, that the area around his right eye was starting to feel funny -- puffy and swollen. He wondered if he was going to get a black eye out of this and smiled humorously at the idea, imagining how that would sound to people...or at least those who wouldn’t already know what had happened.

Marty couldn’t help but feel some of the blame on his injury rested not on his shoulders, or even on Doc who had apparently pushed him (unintentionally) off the seat. No, the blame for this went directly to the tiny person in the white gown who was getting water poured over his head. Little baby Jules. He was the one who had made him tired enough to fall asleep in church in the first place. He was the reason they were in church at all today, without a good excuse to skip. And he was the reason Marty had to stand here in front of most of Hill Valley with a bloody handkerchief pressed to his forehead.

Yet even with the resentment building in him. Marty found himself promising to guide and protect Jules Martin Brown, should anything happen to his parents.

The irony did not escape the teen.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, with Jules settled down for a nap after his active morning, Clara Brown slipped down the first floor hallway towards Marty’s bedroom. When they had returned from church earlier in the day, her husband’s friend had gone to his room to put a cold cloth on his injury, hoping to cut the swelling down. Nothing had been heard from him in the past three hours.

The door was closed, nothing but silence audible from within. Clara listened a moment, her ear to the wood, before grasping the knob and gently easing the door open. The shades were drawn over the windows, but some late winter daylight still slipped through and provided enough illumination for her to see inside without a problem.

Marty, she saw, was lying flat on his back on his bed, arms folded across his chest, a cold,damp rag covering his eyes. Clara crossed the floor quietly, her skirts rustling, and reached out to remove the rag from his face. She winced a little at what she saw. The place where he had collided with the wooden pew had stopped bleeding hours before, during the ride back to the house, but had since swelled into a tender red bump. Meanwhile, the area around his right eye had turned black and blue -- a black eye.

Marty did not seem to notice her presence. He sighed softly, not opening his eyes as Clara stared at him, and rolled onto his left side. The former teacher soaked the washrag in the bowl of water at his washstand, wrung it out, then tried to replace it over the bruised area and eye, a more awkward process now that Marty was on his side. He stirred at her touch, turning his head and opening his eyes halfway.

“What?” he mumbled.

“Nothing,” Clara said softly. “I was just trying to refresh the compress. Supper won’t be for a couple more hours yet.”

“Oh.” His eyes fell closed again. Clara settled the compress down on his bump and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She sighed as she stood in the hall, something bothering her.

After checking on Jules, still sleeping soundly in his crib, she pulled on her coat and left the house to cross the lawn. In one hand she clutched a small device that Emmett had modified from the future. He had called it a “walkie-talkie” and it had been something salvaged from the wreck of his time machine many months back. It was the size of a small box, a bit weighty, but had the fascinating power of transmitting sounds short distances. By setting one of the devices in the same room as the baby, Clara could monitor him from a separate room. Emmett had called it a “baby monitor,” and told her that the idea had not originated with him, that it would be somewhat common in the future time where he was from. Clara didn’t care; she found the device marvelous and thought her husband even more of a genius for cobbling it together here.

When she reached the barn, she found the door locked. Emmett, she knew, had some strange ideas about privacy when it came to his workspace. It seemed a bit silly to her, as they were not prone to having unexpected visitors. She knocked hard on the door for a good minute before she finally heard footsteps move her way. Following the sound of bolts sliding back, the door opened and her husband stood in the doorway. He looked tired, slightly frazzled, and his workclothes were already stained with smears of soot here and there.

“Is supper ready so soon?” he asked, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

“No,” she said. “Not for another hour or so yet. “ She stepped inside the barn and closed the door against the cold wind. “What are you working on?”

“I’m trying to see what’s gone wrong with the swing sling. I think I’ve narrowed it down to a loose gear. Where’s the baby?”

“Napping, thank goodness.” Clara set the cumbersome “baby monitor” down on one of the worktables. “Emmett, I’m worried about Marty.”

Emmett had been about to turn back to his project, lying in pieces on one of the tables nearby. At the statement, however, he turned back around and gave his wife his full attention. “Why? What’s happened? Has he slipped into a coma?”

“No, no. I was just in his room, checking on him, and he woke up for a moment. I wouldn’t be terribly concerned with his napping the last several hours. Goodness knows I would like to do the same.” She sighed wistfully at the idea.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Clara hesitated, trying to articulate what she felt. “He has just seemed rather quiet since Jules was born, as if something is preoccupying him.”

“If he’s quiet, I’m sure it’s because he’s just tired,” Emmett said. “That’s not anything abnormal. I suspect he may perk up a bit by staying out here at night.” He returned to his worktable and picked up a tool, bending over for a close look at the components that were exposed. Clara regarded it a moment with faint curiosity before looking back to her husband.

“You don’t think he’s jealous of the baby, do you?”

“Jealous?” Emmett looked up again, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why would Marty be jealous of the baby?”

“Oh, I don’t know.... I’ve seen him looking at Jules sometimes, and he does not look...happy.” Said aloud, it sounded like a weak bit of reasoning, even to Clara’s own ears.

“Clara, I’m sure he’s simply exhausted, nothing more. Marty wouldn’t be jealous of our son. There’s no logical rational for it. Besides,” he added, “I haven’t seen him truly happy since before we arrived here. He’s still homesick.”

“I--I suppose.” Clara still could not shake the feeling, however. She pushed it out of her mind for the moment and took a more careful look around the room. “How is that other project coming along? The time machine?”

“Slowly...but I haven’t had much time to spare, you know.”

“I know,” Clara said. “You’ve been a wonderful provider and help.” She paused a moment. “Perhaps Marty is feeling put out because you haven’t been spending much time on that project.”

Emmett sighed, looking up again. “That can’t be helped if he is,” he said curtly. “I know that Marty is having trouble coping with the circumstances here, but there’s little I can do that I’m not already doing. He’s got to learn to make the best of the situation in the meantime. If he wants to pout and sulk and whine, that’s his problem. I must say that I’m getting a little tired of having to listen to it, though.”

Clara blinked at the tone in her husband’s voice. “Are you angry with him?” she asked tentatively.

Emmett sunk down on a stool set beside the worktable. He looked even more exhausted for a moment. “No,” he said. “I’m not angry. I suppose I’m just frustrated. There’s only so much I can do, Clara.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ve been worrying about that kid from the moment I landed here, before he even decided to drop in and pick me up. Marty is stubborn when he wants to be. I think if he simply changed his perspective on the current circumstances, he would feel a little better. He’s focusing too much on the negative, and that could drive anyone crazy.”

Clara stepped over to her husband and slipped an arm around his back, rubbing the back of his neck with her fingers. He felt as tense as a statue under her fingertips. “You have been a good friend to him, Emmett,” she said, her voice soft but her tone firm. “Both of you have had to cope with problems that no mortal should ever face. I admit, though, that I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad that you ended up here, in this time and place...but I’m very sorry that neither of you can leave. I know you must miss your home, too.”

Emmett shrugged, slipping one arm around his wife’s waist. “I do, at times,” he admitted. “But there are a great number of things here that I love.” He turned his head and kissed Clara on the cheek.

“You only love me that much?” she asked, peering coyly at her husband.

Emmett smiled, some of the fatigue slipping away from his face. “Well, maybe a little more than that....”

A moment later, a raspy cry broke the spell. Clara stepped out of her husband’s embrace and turned her head towards the baby monitor. She sighed, slightly annoyed by the timing of the interruption. “Drat, I think he’s hungry.”

Emmett made his own soft sound of regret. “It’s almost as if he knows,” he said ominously. He gave his wife one more kiss. “I’ll be out of here within half an hour.”

“All right, dear.” Clara collected the monitor and hurried out of the barn, across the lawn to the house. The baby’s cry was stronger now, more annoyed that he had not yet been tended to. Clara reached the back door, turned the knob...and it refused to budge. She twisted it a different way. It didn’t move.

“Drat!” she said again, annoyed. The door must have been ready to lock behind her when she left.

Jules continued to cry, the sound making Clara more anxious. She hated hearing her baby upset or in distress. Clutching the monitor against her chest, she hurried around to the front of the house via the porch, and tried the front door. It, too, was locked. Feeling increasingly distraught, Clara went over to one of the windows of Marty’s bedroom and rapped hard on the glass. When that did not provoke an immediate response, she tried again, tapping the band of her wedding ring against the surface to amplify the sound.

Marty’s face peeked through the curtains a moment later, a look of groggy confusion on his face. “I’m locked out,” Clara said loudly, over the cries of her son from the device. “Can you let me inside?”

Marty nodded once, disappearing from view. A moment later, Clara heard the front door open and she eagerly hurried that way. Marty stood in the doorway watching her approach, his clothes and hair rumpled from his afternoon of napping. In the late afternoon light of day, the bump and his black eye looked even worse. “What happened?” he asked.

“I went out to see Emmett in the barn, and the door locked behind me,” Clara explained, hurrying inside and following the sound of her baby’s cry. “Then Jules started to cry...I’m sorry, Marty.”

Marty shrugged as he closed the door and twisted the bolt back into place. “Whatever,” he said flatly, following her as she cut through the parlor to reach the dining room. “That kid’s always crying. You and Doc have gotta do something about it.”

Clara set the monitor device down on the dining room table and bent down over the crib where the baby lay tangled amid blankets, his face red from the effort of his wails. “He is a baby, Marty,” she said. “This is his only way of communication right now.”

“Yeah, well, it’s lousy.”

Clara deliberately changed the subject as she lifted up Jules and began to sway, trying to soothe him. Almost immediately, his crying tapered a bit. “How does your head feel?”

Marty reached up to touch his bump, wincing as he did so. “It hurts,” he said curtly. “How does it look? It feels all swollen around there.”

“You’ve got a black eye. Your bump is rather colorful, too. I’m sure the swelling will be down by tomorrow.”

“The black eye won’t go away any time soon, though,” Marty said darkly. He sighed, raking a hand back through his sleep mussed hair. “It’s so humiliating...half the town saw what happened.”

Clara hid a smile at the memory, though at the time she had been quite frightened. “Well, I’m sure they will forget. No one will have the insensitivity to mention it to you.”

“Maybe not, but they’ll be thinking about it and talking about it behind my back.” He shrugged, suddenly indifferent. “Well, whatever. It’s not like I really care what anyone here thinks of me.”

Clara pursed her lips together as she walked around the dining room table with the baby, who was swiftly calming down. “Marty, I know that Emmett doesn’t agree with me, but you should get out and make some friends your own age.”

“You’re right, Clara,” Marty said. “Doc doesn’t agree with you about that. So I can’t. And he’s right -- it could screw up a lot of things.”

Clara pressed her lips together harder. She hated seeing a young man of Marty’s age be so reclusive. Based on what Emmett had told her, she knew that it wasn’t like him. “I think Emmett worries too much about those matters,” she said.

Marty lifted his shoulders in another weary shrug. “Do you think you could make me some of that tea for headaches and stuff?” he asked.

The change of subject threw Clara a moment, but she smiled. “Certainly. Can you take him a moment? I don’t think he’ll cry if someone is holding him.”

“I guess.” The young man’s tone was void of the slightest bit of enthusiasm.

Clara passed him Jules, reminding him to support the baby’s head. The moment the child came into his hands, Marty’s posture grew ramrod stiff. He looked at Clara, his expression uncertain. “I’m not sure what to do.”

“Just walk him around the room,” the former teacher said. She left Marty in the dining room, slowly beginning to circle the table with the whimpering baby.

In the kitchen, she had just poured a mug full of hot water from the stove when Emmett reached the back door. He rattled the knob, trying to peer through the window set in the door. Clara set the kettle down and hurried to open it for him. “Sorry,” she apologized at once. “I think the lock stuck when I left the house to see you.”

“That’s all right,” Emmett said as he came in, nonplussed. “Where’s the baby?”

“Marty has him right now, in the other room.” Clara headed over to one of the shelves, searching for the proper canister of tea.

“Marty?” Emmett’s tone betray surprise, as Marty had not been very interested in Jules since he was born.

“He wanted some tea for his headache, and someone needed to hold the baby or he would start crying again.” Clara located the tin she wanted and removed it from the shelf before turning to face her husband. “Emmett, I think Marty needs to get out of the house more.”

“What do you mean?” There was a trace of suspicion to the words.

“Well, he is eighteen, isn’t he? I daresay it is not very fun for him to be with us all the time. When my brother was his age, he was doing all sorts of things: going to dances, going away to school, spending time with a circle of chums--”

“Clara, you know Marty can’t do that. We’ve discussed this. I don’t know why you’re so insistent on bringing this up time and again.”

Clara frowned as she spooned the proper amount if tea from the tin into the mug of hot water. “I believe he will feel better spending time with young people his age.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Emmett said immediately. “Where Marty’s from, kids his age...they’re still very much kids. They don’t have a large list of responsibility -- school, perhaps, maybe family obligations or a part-time job. Society calls them ‘teenagers.’ Here, they’re...well, they’re young adults. They’ve got many more responsibilities, and society treats them as capable adults. They can carry guns. They can drink alcohol. They can have children of their own, get married without parental consent, and get a job without any sort of formal education. It’s absolutely different. I don’t think Marty would really fit in with anyone his age here, even if it was advisable for him to go out and make friends of his own.”

“Perhaps, but I saw him performing last July on that stage, and dancing with that young woman. He looked happy, Emmett. He didn’t look as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.”

Emmett’s eyes narrowed in sudden scrutiny at his wife. “Did he ask you to talk to me?”

Clara shook her head as she vigorously stirred the tea. “No, he did not. He seemed to think that any persuasion on my part would be foolhardy.”

“And he’s correct. Clara, I don’t think you realize how dangerous our presence can be here. Especially for Marty -- he has direct ancestors living in town right now.”

Clara sighed, more than a bit sick of these tired arguments her husband would throw at her. “Be that as it may, this is no way for a young man of his age to live.”

Emmett rubbed his forehead, as if he had a headache. “I think we’re all in agreement about that. I’m doing everything I can to rectify the situation and get him back home, but it just takes time.”

A flood of guilt suddenly washed over Clara. She noticed again how tired Emmett looked, recalling that not only was he up at night as much as she was, he was working full days in town. Not to mention he had been trying to help her around the house, especially in the first week after Jules had been born and she had been too sore to do much of anything.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know you are doing the best you can. I just think, perhaps, in the meantime--”

“No,” Emmett said, a distinct edge to his voice with the word. He held out his hand. “I’ll take that out to Marty. I want to see how his bump looks.”

Clara passed her husband the steaming mug of tea and watched him turn and step through the swinging door that led into the dining room. She sighed as she turned back to the stove, already trying to figure out a way to convince both Emmett and Marty that socialization for the young man could be a benefit here.

And she still had the nagging, uneasy feeling that Marty did not entirely like the new baby.

* * *

“Emmett,” Clara said a few minutes later, as they headed up the stairs to their room, “there’s something I would like to ask of you.”

Doc smiled in the semidarkness. There was nothing, he thought, that he could deny his wife tonight. Not on her birthday. “What’s that?” he asked, slipping an arm around her waist.

“There is a social at the church on Saturday night.”

“Oh, yes, I think I remember hearing about that from a few people in town. You want to go? I don’t see a lot of harm in that, though I don’t think we should bring the baby.”

“No, I agree with you on that. I think Jules will be too much of a handful, and that’s a long drive at night in the cold weather. I do not need to go, but I think Marty should -- by himself, without us.”

Doc grimaced at the suggestion as they walked past their son’s bedroom. At least he seemed to be sleeping peacefully for the moment. “I don’t like that idea.”

“Why?” Clara turned to look at him as they crossed the threshold of their bedroom. Doc closed the door behind him.

“You know why, Clara. We’ve been over this before.” And over...and over....

“He needs to get out, Emmett. He looked so glum tonight.”

“He’s glum because he’s homesick. It won’t make any difference whatsoever if he socializes with the people in town. Believe me.”

The inventor wished she’d drop the subject, especially tonight, but Clara seemed oblivious to his feelings. “If you think that, there should be no harm in him going. He can bring the cake I’ll bake for the social and give our regards to everyone. It’s much better than none of us going at all.”

“Clara--” Doc stopped abruptly. He didn’t want anything to ruin this night, especially not right now. He sighed, glancing down at the floorboards. “All right, fine. He can go this time. If he wants to, that is. But I don’t really like the idea.”

Clara smiled, her eyes gleaming in the light of the single oil lamp that Doc held. “Thank you, Emmett,” she said sweetly -- and then, to Doc’s delight, she stepped forward and began to demonstrate just how very thankful she was.

* * *

Afterward, Doc was content to simply lay in the bed and stare at his wife as she gradually drifted off to sleep, her long dark curls hanging loose and spread across the pillow. Listening to her deepening breath, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest in the moonlight that filtered through the window curtains, he felt completely at peace. The worries that normally dogged during all wakeful minutes faded to a dull roar, no more troublesome than the street noise used to be to him when he lived in the garage on JFK.

He closed his eyes with a sigh, savoring the silence. Jules hadn’t stirred once since he had fallen asleep in Marty’s room during dinner. Perhaps he would finally be able to get some rest tonight.

“Doc! Hey, Doc!”

The voice from outside had to be his imagination. There was no possible reason why Marty would be yelling for him outside as if the house was on fire.

“Fire, Doc! Fire in your lab!”

Fire? Doc’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, wondering if he had heard right. Marty’s cry repeated itself.

The scientist threw back the blankets and leapt out of bed, striding over to the window that faced the back yard and the lab. Outside, he saw a faint orange glow flickering from within the lab’s lower windows.

“Great Scott!”

He turned and started to run, not stopping to wake his wife with the news.

Doc didn’t remember how he got from the bedroom to the back yard, and was only peripherally aware of the cold night air against his bare skin. He was only focused on the idea of the flames consuming what progress he had made towards building a new time machine, as well as destroying the few inventions he had crafted to use in this time.

“What happened?” he demanded when he saw Marty, who had stopped short of the porch stairs.

The teen’s eyes widened as big as saucers as Doc burst outside and he suddenly looked towards the ground. “I, uh, I….jeez, Doc!”

The inventor paid his response little mind, running across the frosty lawn towards the lab. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. He spun around. “Marty! Where are the keys?”

Marty was lingering near the porch for some reason, his gaze still fixed towards the ground. “They’re inside,” he called back, not moving. “The door’s locked?”

“Yes! It locks automatically when you leave! I told you that, remember?”

Marty did not answer the question. “Uh, Doc, are you aware that you’re completely na—“

“Damn!” Doc swore, not letting him finish. He looked through the window, realizing there was only one thing to do. “Go to the pump, fill the bucket with water, and bring it over here.”

“Right.”

Marty hurried off to take care of the chore, keeping his head down. While Doc waited for the teen’s aid, he pried a large stone from the frozen mud nearby and lobbed it through the window. There was a terrific crash of glass, and a brief billow of smoke. He turned around to check on his friend’s progress. “Hurry, Marty!”

Marty finished filling the bucket at the pump and ran it over in halting steps, sloshing water down the front of his clothes in his haste. His eyes were fixed on the closed and locked door. “Doc,” he said when he was no more than six feet away, “don’t you think it’d be a good idea to--”

“You’ll need to climb in through the window and open the door,” Doc said, cutting him off. “You’re smaller than me. I won’t be able to fit through the space.”

Marty dropped the bucket with a thud at his feet, splashing water all over his pants, and let out a nervous laugh, the reaction seeming out of place to Doc. Perhaps it was a form of mild hysteria. “Doc,” he said, looking off to the side, “I can’t take you remotely seriously right now.”

“And why not?” the scientist asked, his mind still occupied by the crackling fire nearby.

“Because you’re-- you’re-- Look at you!”

Doc glanced down and only then realized what had been obvious to Marty the moment he had stepped outside. “Oh,” he said mildly, too upset about the fire to be very embarrassed about his current exposed state. Besides, it was simply the human body, which was nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes, well, when my lab is on fire, getting dressed doesn’t seem to be very important.” He glanced down, noticing a quilt crumpled on the lawn, no doubt brought out by Marty and discarded in the emergency. “Can you hand me that quilt?”

“Uh, yeah.” Marty hastily retrieved it, stopping a couple feet away from the inventor to hold it out to him. He kept his eyes averted from Doc, clearly uncomfortable. Doc wrapped the blanket nonchalantly around his waist, tucking in the edge firmly so it would not slip free.

“All right, Marty, I need you to go in through the window,” he said, once that was taken care of. “Let me in the door and I’ll do the rest.”

Marty glanced at him, his eyes flickering down in a quick scan, and nodded. He stepped over to the window and peered inside for a moment, then grasped the windowsill, took a couple small hops, and boosted himself up. A moment later the door opened. Doc wasted little time in charging inside, wielding the bucket of water. He saw enough to see that a part of the floor and one of his worktables was aflame, the fire starting to spread to the wall behind it. Then he dumped the bucket of water over the affected area, handed it to Marty, and ordered him to refill it.

It took four more buckets of water before the flames were extinguished. Coughing from the smoke now choking the air in the lab, Doc darted around the room to open all the windows, hoping to clear the air as fast as possible. He looked at Marty through watering eyes, the teen hovering in the doorway.

“What in the name of Albert Einstein happened, Marty?” he demanded.

Marty sighed, resting his forehead against the doorjamb. “I heard a noise out here, and went to check it out with the lamp. Something ran over my foot” -- he shuddered from the memory -- “and it startled the hell outta me, so I dropped the lamp, it broke, and suddenly fire was all over the floor. Then I took off to get you.”

Doc walked to another area of the lab, undamaged but still reeking of smoke, and took a moment to light a new lamp. He brought it over to the sight of the fire and held it up for a look at the damage.

The worktable near the door would be a total loss. The wood was charred ebony and still steaming a little in spots. The same could be said of the floorboards before the table. The metal skeleton of the lamp that had caused the fire in the first place lay amid the worst of the damage, the glass casing half melted from the heat of the flames. There were scorch marks on the walls, but the scientist thought those were fairly superficial. Several of his in-progress projects -- including some of the tubes and workings for the new time machine -- were ruined. Doc reached out to touch one. He quickly drew his hand back with a hiss of pain as the hot metal burned his fingertips.

“I’m really sorry, Doc.”

Doc looked down at the table and shook his head, clenching his teeth together in frustration. “Dammit, Marty, you could have burned down the entire lab!”

“I said I was sorry. It was an accident. It’s not my fault you have mice or rats in here.”

The inventor turned sharply to the left, hands braced on his hips, and paced to the other side of the room, away from his friend, hoping to vent some of his irritation. “You’ve got to be careful when you’re out here. Oil lamps and candles could destroy an entire building in a few minutes. The time machine is out here in the cellar. All the parts we’ve made so far for the machine are stored out here!”

“Doc, I get the idea. Look, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to do?”

Doc closed his eyes and shook his head, his back still to his friend. “You’re not staying out here anymore. That’s it.”

There was a brief moment of silence. “Fine,” Marty said flatly. The scientist heard his footsteps move away -- and then, without warning, turn and come back into the room. “You know, this whole thing is Jules’ fault.”

The statement was so ludicrous that Doc couldn’t help but turn to look at his friend. “What?” he asked, thinking he must have not heard Marty correctly.

The teen folded his arms across his chest. “I wouldn’t’ve been out here in the first place if that kid hadn’t been crying every night. And if I hadn’t been out here, there wouldn’t’ve been a fire.”

Doc almost laughed. “Are you trying to tell me that Jules is responsible for this?” he asked incredulously, gesturing to the steaming, blackened table.

“Well, yeah.”

Doc raised both eyebrows. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Yeah, of course you’d defend your son,” Marty muttered, looking down at the floorboards. “Why don’t you just kick me out of the house while you’re at it?”

Doc closed his eyes again and sighed, his head beginning to ache from both the smell of scorched wood and trying to follow Marty’s strange reasoning. “Marty....” he began with as much patience as he could muster.

He was not given a chance to finish. A second later the door to the lab slammed shut with enough force to cause one of the windows to fall shut. Doc opened his eyes and found himself alone in the smokey lab.

What the hell? he wondered, baffled. What the hell is up with that kid?

* * *

As Marty crossed the lawn, his pace close to a run, he fought back a lump in his throat full of angry tears. He hadn’t seen Doc look that pissed off in a while, and his reaction when Marty had blurted out the reason the fire had happened in the first place, due to Jules, had made him feel sick. Doc had immediately defended his son -- just as Marty had thought he would.

Of course! Jules is his blood family, his son. I’m just a friend from his old life...that’s all.

When he got to the back door, he reached out to grasp the knob -- and gasped at the bolt of hot pain that suddenly creased his palm. Removing his hand from the cold metal, he turned his palm towards his face and saw a deep cut that stretched from just under his right index finger to the base of his pinkie. The palm of his hand was literally dripping blood.

“Shit,” he breathed, feeling faint at the sight. He must have sliced his hand on a shard of glass in the window frame. He raised his left hand and looked at it, wondering if it had sustained similar damage, but it appeared to be unscathed.

The back door abruptly opened, and he found himself face to face with Clara. Doc’s wife blinked, startled, at the sight of Marty standing on the porch just a foot away. Unlike her husband, who had left the house stark naked, she’d had the presence of mind to put on some clothes. Her robe was firmly closed up to the nape of her neck. “Marty!” she said. “What’s going on? I thought I heard shouting.”

“There was a fire in the lab,” Marty mumbled, glancing down at his cut palm. “It’s out now.”

Clara frowned, and then noticed the wound. “Oh, goodness, you’re hurt!” she exclaimed. “Come in, let me have a look at it.”

Marty allowed himself to be brought into the warm kitchen and plopped down in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He held his right hand out, palm up and cupped slightly in an effort to keep his blood from spilling onto the floor. Clara hurriedly slipped a clean dishtowel on the table and told him to set his hand down. Marty did so, a feeling of weakness hitting him again as he looked at the cut in the light of a single lamp on the kitchen table. It looked so deep and...how was it possible for it to bleed that much?

“I’ll be right back, “Clara said, her voice steady and calm. “Don’t move from that spot.”

“Okay,” Marty said softly. He averted his eyes to something else less gory and tried to ignore the warm dampness and dull throbbing in his right palm.

Clara returned a couple minutes later, a washcloth in one hand and a small bowl of what appeared to be water in the other. She set it down on the table, and took Marty’s wounded hand. “Let’s clean this up,” she said, steering his hand to the bowl and submerging it into the cold liquid.

“Jesus Christ!” Marty cried, his cut suddenly burning and stinging. He blinked back tears of pain from his eyes. “What the hell is that, acid?”

“Salt water,” Clara said, keeping a firm grasp of his wrist and not allowing him to pull free and remove it from the bowl. “It should sterilize the wound and wash it out.”

“Son of a bitch, it hurts,” Marty muttered, his mouth dry. He bit his lip hard, hoping to distract himself from the burning pain of the cut.

Just as he was starting to sweat a little, Clara allowed him to raise his hand out of the water. The blood had tainted the liquid to a dull shade of pink. She dabbed the washcloth in the water, and then began to run the wet fabric over the deep cut. Marty clenched his teeth together hard to avoid yelling and cursing from the serious discomfort.

In the middle of this, the back door opened and Doc came into the kitchen. He was still clad in nothing more than the quilt knotted around his waist, soot smeared on his exposed skin. He looked annoyed, but at the sight of his wife and Marty at the table he suddenly frowned, concerned. “What happened?” he asked, closing the door.

“Marty cut his hand rather deeply,” Clara said. The teen groaned softly as she continued to probe at the cut with the salt water-soaked washcloth. “I’m getting it cleaned up now, but I think we may want the doctor to take a look at it in the morning.” She blinked, frowning. “Emmett, what on earth are you wearing?”

“A quilt.” Doc offered no further explanation. He leaned over for a look at Marty’s injury and made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “He must have cut it on the window glass.” He looked up at the teen. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“Didn’t notice it until I got to the house,” Marty managed to say.

“Emmett, what happened? Marty said there was a fire in the lab....?”

“There was,” Doc said. He sat down in the chair to Marty’s left. “Marty dropped an oil lamp on the floor out there when a vermin startled him.”

Clara’s eyes darted up to Marty’s face before returning back to her husband’s. “How much damage was there?”

“It could have been worse -- much worse. A few things I was working on -- for the new time machine -- are ruined, as well as one of the worktables. The floorboards sustained some damage where the lamp fell, and there’s some superficial damage that shouldn’t be too difficult to fix up. Marty won’t be staying out there any more, however.”

Marty’s cheeks flushed a little at that reminder. He looked down, studying the pattern of the china bowl that held the bloody saltwater. “Clara, are you almost done?” he asked.

“Just about. Emmett, can you fetch me a clean towel and some bandages from the first aid kit?”

“All right. Where is Jules?”

“Still asleep, last I checked.”

Doc got up from the table and left the room. As soon as they were alone again, Clara turned her dark eyes on Marty and gave him a faint, concerned smile. “Are you all right, Marty?”

“I’m fine,” Marty said flatly. “Everything’s fine.”

“Emmett will settle down...I know he may seem angry with you now, but--”

“Clara, forget it. I know that. I’m fine, all right? Will you stop asking me?”

Clara pursed her lips together. “Certainly,” she said softly, and changed the subject suddenly. “Emmett has agreed that you may go to town this Saturday night.”

“And do what?” Marty asked, feeling unreasonably anxious with that statement. Was he being kicked out, now?

“There’s a social in the church. It will allow you time to meet some others your age and make friends.”

“Forget it,” Marty said flatly. “I don’t want to go. It won’t do any good.”

“Now, Marty--”

“Look, Clara, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Really. But I’m telling you: It won’t make one bit of difference. I don’t know those people. I shouldn’t know those people. And even if I did go, Doc would probably get mad at me for doing something I shouldn’t be doing. What’s the point of trying? What’s the point?”

Clara sighed softly. She withdrew the washcloth and gently turned his palm towards the lamplight, examining it. “I think we’ve done all we can right now with that,” she said, dropping the matter. “It’s terribly deep. Dr. Peterson may need to close it up.”

“Great.” Marty grabbed the towel that Clara had tossed onto the tabletop when he had first sat down and dried his hand off, being extra careful in touching the cut. Already, blood was oozing back to the surface, turning the teen’s stomach. He had a feeling he’d have a scar there for the rest of his life....or at least until Doc undid things for him if he ever finished the time machine.

“Press the towel on the cut,” Clara advised, standing and collecting the bowl and damp and bloodied washcloth. “That should stem some of the bleeding. Emmett should be back in a moment so we can put a bandage on it.”

Marty did as she suggested, trying to ignore the deep, aching throb of the wound. Just as his black eye and bump from the incident in the church were gone, here was yet another thing for the townspeople to grill him over and stare.

And, Marty realized with a deeper chill, this was much worse. He held up his right hand before his eyes, keeping the towel pressed to his palm with his left hand, and moved his fingers around. They flexed, but it hurt to do so; he winced, both in pain and in anxiety.

Oh, God....what if this screws up my guitar skills?

What if he had nicked a tendon or a nerve? Doc had mentioned to him once, when Marty had wanted to know about his future, that he had apparently gotten involved in a drag race and busted his hand, which had caused him to give up on his music. (Whether by choice or by circumstance Marty was not sure.) In this time, such an injury as nicked tendons or nerves could have some serious consequences and probably be almost impossible to fix.

“Perhaps you should set your head down,” Clara said, obviously alarmed as Marty’s face drained of color from these thoughts.

“And hold your hand up above your head,” Doc added, catching his wife’s advice. Marty looked over at his arrival. His friend had swapped the quilt for a robe and now held the tin box that contained most of their medical supplies, as well as a couple dark colored towels. “It should slow the bleeding and help with the shock.”

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Marty lay his head down on the table, pillowing it on the crock of his left arm, and raised his right hand into the air, as if he was volunteering to be called on in class. Doc grasped his right wrist and lowered his arm down until the elbow bumped the tabletop. Marty grimaced at yet another bruise on his poor body. “Sorry,” Doc said, catching the expression. “Hold your hand there, palm up.”

Marty followed the directions, watching as Doc opened the first aid kit and pulled out a roll of gauze and some cotton padding. The scientist next removed the towel that had been soaking up the fresh blood and had a look at the injury. His forehead puckered with scrutiny.

“That does look deep,” he said. “How does it feel?”

“As good as it looks.”

“Are you having any tingling or numbness in your fingers? Can you move them for me?”

Marty wiggled all of his digits. “They feel fine, but it hurts to flex anything on that hand now.”

“Hopefully that will pass. Hold still, now.”

Doc tore off some of the cotton padding, pressed it to the cut, and wound the gauze around the hand several times until the bandage was snug enough to hurt a little. Marty flexed his fingers again after Doc had tied it off and looked at the swath of white layers now wound around his hand.

“When we go into town, I’ll have Dr. Peterson take a look at it,” Doc said as he replaced the supplies in the kit. “That may need stitches.”

“They do that now?” Marty asked skeptically, raising his head up as he allowed his bandaged hand to drop to the table.

“Yes. You don’t want to leave that open for infection, do you?”

“No,” Marty said. He glanced down at his hand and stood, his legs a little wobbly. “I’m gonna go back to bed now, unless you want me to help you clean up the lab or something.”

“That can wait until tomorrow,” Doc said.

“Fine. Good night, then.”

Once in his room, Marty took a few minutes to change, the clothes on his back reeking of smoke from the fire and soaked all down the front from running the buckets of water between the pump and the lab. It was a bit awkward with his right hand out of commission. Then he carefully extinguished the lamp at his bedside and crawled under the covers. He lay flat on his back, a headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes in time with the hot throbbing of his cut, waiting for his body heat to warm up the blankets so it felt less like he was sleeping on sheets of ice.

There was one thing, though. It was quiet. Astonishingly so.

Amazing, he thought, closing his eyes. The kid isn’t crying, for once.

Just minutes later, however, he was forced to take back those words. He opened his eyes and groaned, pulling the spare pillow over his head. As if Jules hadn’t done enough already, Marty thought, annoyed, wishing again vehemently that the kid had never been born.