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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surely this had to be some sort of horrible joke!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she hit her head?” Doc asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m in here, Emmett.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is something wrong with Doc, Clara?”

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

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

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

He didn’t have to wait too long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” Her response was brisk, clipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No vacations,” Doc said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, but--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodness! What is that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marty! We need to talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something the matter, lad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emmett?”

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

“I’m back here,” Doc said.

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

“No, he’s not,” Doc said immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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