It was not every day that someone turned twenty.

While the age of twenty-one was widely memorialized as being the legal drinking age -- at least for those in the U.S. -- the age of twenty was more notable, but less singled out, as being the age that one left the teen years behind for good.

For Marty McFly, the day was distinguished more for the odd circumstances that encircled that particular birthday. Very few people, he thought as he stared up at the ceiling above his bed, turned twenty a full eighty years before their actual birth. Such quirks were one of the hazards of time travel -- or, in his case, of being unable to return back home after the time machine he had been in had been irrecoverably damaged.

Maybe, he thought without much conviction, today will be the day. The day that Doc would give him the best gift he could’ve asked for: a new, working time machine in which to travel ninety-seven years in the future...or three years or so in the past to undo the mess that had kept him back here in the first place.

Marty knew that it was a long shot -- more than a long shot, in fact. He knew very well which state the time machine was in that his friend was trying to craft, and it was very far from being finished. It would be another year...maybe two...maybe more...before it would be in potential working order.

Marty sighed and rolled onto his side, checking the face of the windup alarm clock next to the bed. It wasn’t even seven A.M. yet; sunlight was barely beginning to glow around the edge of his windowshade. And yet he felt wide awake. He almost wished he could stay where he was for the day. Birthdays were something he preferred to forget about right now, as they simply reminded him that time was passing, he was getting older, and he was still stuck in the past of his hometown. It was downright depressing. He knew, however, that wallowing in his bedroom would not be permitted. Doc’s wife, Clara, had spent yesterday evening frosting a cake for today’s festivities, and Doc and Clara’s seventeen-month-old son, Jules, had been toddling around in a state of excitement at the idea of “pwesents,” though no one had clarified that he wouldn’t be at the receiving end of them.

It would be best to simply meet the date head on and ride it out, rather than make it miserable for the others in the same house. There was, after all, nothing that could be done to change the current circumstances at the moment.

Marty closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back to sleep. Perhaps it was the heat of the late spring, but he had not been sleeping very well as of late. It was hard to relax, hard to just lie there, when one wanted to keep working in order to go home. After putting in a day in town helping out Doc in the blacksmith trade, the two of them would have dinner and then go out to the lab in the barn to spend a couple hours working on the new time machine.

Doc was always the one to dictate when to call it a night, much to Marty’s frustration. It seemed to him that as soon as they were getting somewhere, they had to stop. The inventor was determined, however, that no mistakes be made out of fatigue, and that he was provided a chance to spend an hour or so with his son, usually putting him to bed, so that Clara could have some time to herself. Considering the nature of the work, Marty could not soldier on unsupervised, so he would follow his friend back into the house, itching with frustration when he thought of the delay this would mean for his return home.

Lately, Doc had taken to not spending as much time working on the new machine. He had seemed preoccupied and rather distant. Marty’s few queries to him if he had anything on his mind were brushed aside briskly. It was, Doc said, simply the usual matters on his mind -- finances, the responsibilities they had in keeping the past of their hometown intact, the health and well-being of his family, so forth. Marty couldn’t help thinking there was something more going on, but he honestly had no clue what it could possibly be, and took it upon himself to keep his friend focused on the here and now with the time machine construction.

That urge to keep working on the machine would keep him up until well-past midnight most nights, his mind hashing over what still needed to be done before the project could be finished, even though his body would ache with fatigue. And then the whole cycle would begin anew around six A.M., when Doc would wake him up for the drive into town.

But today...today he was just awake on his own. And Doc seemed to be running late, considering he hadn’t yet rapped upon the door to get him up. It was lousy of his body to deprive him of sleeping in, even a little.

Marty rolled over and opened his eyes again, sighing once more. He hated this. It was no use. He was up for the day, like it or not. He sat up and leaned forward, running his hands back through his mussed hair, wishing that his body and brain could sync up the energy and alertness he felt. After a moment, he threw the bedcovers aside and climbed to his feet. He walked over to the window, nudging back a corner of the shade to peer outside. Marty squinted at the bright daylight and blue sky that lay beyond the covered porch outside the window. It looked like it was going to be a hot day.

Marty withdrew from the window and reached for his clothes, lying draped over the footboard railings of the bed. He emerged from his room a few minutes later, dressed for the day, wondering idly why no one had yet come to rouse him. He paused when he reached the end of the hall, which spilled into the foyer, listening for signs of life from the other occupants of the house. Faint sounds of movement from the back kitchen were audible, and he veered in that direction.

When he reached the closed kitchen door, he realized that someone -- well, a pair of someone's, at least -- were speaking softly from within the room.

“I think you should go back to bed,” he heard Doc say. “Don’t tax yourself. You were up half the night with Jules.”

“I am fine, Emmett,” Clara said, her voice pitched low with a sort of weariness. “I have lived through this before. This should be no different than last time.”

“It is different. You’re older, for one. You’re busier, for another. I don’t like how pale you look.”

“It will pass soon. Really, Emmett, stop fussing so much.” There was a pause. “Shouldn’t you wake Marty soon?”

“I will, I will. Since today’s his birthday, I thought I would allow him to sleep in a little, and we can go into town midmorning.”

“That is very generous of you. Is that your only reason for delaying a departure, though?”

“Absolutely.” Marty could tell Doc was lying through his teeth, though, even sight unseen. “Although if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll get Jules dressed and fed.”

“Perhaps, but only if he awakes on his own. He didn’t drop off until almost 3 A.M. last night, crying each time I tried to leave the room. He seems so clingy as of late.”

“I wonder if he somehow knows?” Doc said, rather ominously. There was a pause. “I’ll go check on him now.”

Marty hastily took a step back away from the door. Seconds later, it swung open and Doc nearly collided with him. The scientist jumped, startled, and took a quick hop back. “Marty! You’re up?”

“Yeah,” Marty said, not elaborating to his friend about his slight problem with insomnia. “What’s going on? Is something wrong with Clara?”

“No,” Doc said immediately. “Of course not. What gave you that idea?” His gaze burrowed straight into Marty’s eyes.

“I dunno.... You sounded concerned about her in there.”

Doc’s eyes narrowed. “How long were you eavesdropping?”

“Not long, sheesh. Why are you jumping on me about that?”

Doc didn’t answer the question. “Breakfast is almost ready,” he said instead. “Go on ahead. I’m going to check on Jules and see if he’s still asleep.”

Marty remained standing where he was as Doc stepped past him, heading for the stairs. That’s weird, he thought, shaking his head a little. He waited until he heard the inventor’s footsteps reach the second floor before going into the kitchen. Clara stood near the stove, clad in a robe cinched tightly around a nightgown, her hair hanging in a long, frizzy braid down her back. She turned her head slightly at the sound of Marty’s arrival. Doc was right, the young man thought. She did look pale and worn out, like she wasn’t feeling well or had pulled a few all-nighters in a row. He had thought that the worst was over with Jules being up all night -- at any rate, he hadn’t been disturbed by any crying or whatnot for months, and the kid’s bedroom was directly above his. But maybe Clara was having her own problems with sleeping.

“Good morning, Marty,” Clara said, giving him a wan smile. “Happy birthday to you.”

“Thanks. How are you this morning?”

“Fine, thank you.” If Doc wasn’t going to say anything, it became immediately clear that Clara was going to rebuff questions just as much as her husband. Of course, she had downplayed whatever it was to Doc, too, who was something of a worrywart when it came to his wife’s health and sanity. Marty was more willing to take her at her word, and immediately wrote off the conversation he had heard as Doc being Doc.

“I’m almost done mixing batter for pancakes,” Clara said as Marty sat down at the table. “Once the stove is a little hotter, I’ll pour them out to cook.”

“Do you need any help?”

Clara frowned suddenly. She turned her head slightly to gaze at Marty for a moment. “No, I am fine,” she said, rather crisply. “You seem rather alert for so early an hour.”

Marty shrugged. “I just woke up on my own. That helps.”

“Oh? Did Jules disturb you last night? I didn’t think he was crying loudly enough for that.”

“No, that’s not a problem.” Marty didn’t really know what the problem was -- it certainly wasn’t anything new, anyway. He decided not to elaborate on his answer, and Clara did not pry deeper.

The former teacher set down the mixing bowl that was in hand and reached for the coffee pot that rested on the stove. Without a word, she poured a generous mug for Marty and brought it over to the table. As she set down the china on the tabletop, a peculiar expression danced across her face. Her lips tightened, her eyes closed, and her hands suddenly wrapped themselves tightly around the back of a kitchen chair. Marty hesitated before lifting the coffee to his lips.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Clara shook her head marginally and opened her eyes. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice strained. Without another word, she stepped away from the kitchen table and walked rapidly across the floor. Marty watched as she opened the back door, stepped through it, and slammed it shut behind her. He stared at the door for a moment, feeling as if he was missing something. Without thinking about it, Marty started to stand, intending to walk over to the windows that overlooked the yard behind the house, but before he could get more than a step away from his chair, the teakettle on the stove began to whistle.

Startled, he stepped over to the stove and hastily moved the kettle off of the burner. By the time he had done that and turned around, Clara had opened the door and was stepping back into the kitchen. Her skin was covered in a layer of perspiration, and she wore a pained look on her face. She looked, in a word, ill.

“What’s wrong?” he asked at once.

“Nothing,” Clara said, closing the door. She stood there for a moment, her back braced up against the wood. Marty watched her, feeling inexplicably edgy. Clara she shut her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. She did this a few more times before abruptly opening her eyes once more. They met Marty’s gaze, still locked on her from where he stood next to the stove. A tiny, wan smile creased the corners of her mouth.

“Some tea sounds good,” she said lightly. “The stove should be ready for those pancakes now, I think.” Clara stepped away from the door and crossed the floor slowly. She glanced at Marty as she stopped next to him. “You can sit down, Marty.”

The young man hesitated before following orders, returning to his seat at the kitchen table. Clara picked up the bowl of pancake batter and began to stir it anew with the wooden spoon. Marty felt like he was missing something, bigtime. After a few moments of thought, however, he gave up.

He had just moved his mind onto other things -- like the fact he was another year older in a time long before his birth -- when Clara abruptly leaned against one of the kitchen countertops. “Oh, dear,” Marty heard her say softly, one hand drifting to her forehead. The other moved the bowl towards the counter.

The following happened in rapid succession: Clara let go of the bowl too soon and it fell to the floor, shattering with a crash and spilling pancake batter over most of the kitchen floor and furnishings. The din from that had hardly faded when the former teacher suddenly sagged back against the counter and slid slowly to the floor.

Marty jumped to his feet so fast that he spilled his cup of coffee on the table. “Doc!” he hollered as he sidestepped the table and attempted to avoid the batter mess to reach Clara’s side. Her eyes were closed, and her complexion a ghastly ashen shade as she slumped down to the floor in a most ungraceful way. Marty slid a little in a small puddle of batter as he finally reached her and knelt down. With one hand he grabbed her limp wrist, the other he felt her forehead. Her skin felt clammy and her pulse was going slightly fast.

Doc burst in no more than thirty seconds after Marty had shouted for him. His head whipped around as he looked about the room, not noticing the occupants on the floor at the far end. “Doc,” Marty said helpfully. The inventor’s head snapped over to look at him. A soft sound of dismay escaped his lips as he strode across the floor, seemingly oblivious to the smears of batter he was both stepping in and leaving in his wake.

“What happened?” he demanded as Clara’s eyelashes began to flutter. He quickly nudged Marty’s hands aside as he reached to check her pulse himself.

“She was just mixing batter and suddenly keeled over,” Marty explained.

Doc bent over his wife’s face as she seemed to swim back to consciousness. She was groaning, anyway, and looked like she was trying to open her eyes. Her legs shifted on the kitchen floor, splaying her nightgown open in a way that made Marty automatically avert his eyes. “Clara?” Doc said softly, running a thumb down the side of her face.

Clara’s eyes opened, looking glassy and unfocused. She blinked a few times, her forehead creasing in confusion. “What happened?” she whispered.

“I think you fainted,” Marty said. Clara turned her head at the sound of his voice, her eyes resting on him for longer than seemed necessary.

“Fainted?” she echoed. “Don’t be silly.” Her eyes moved quickly to her husband’s face. Doc frowned.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Fine,” Clara said simply, her voice sounding stronger with every word. She struggled to sit up properly from the slouched semi-sprawl against the cabinets.

“’Fine’ people do not simply faint for no reason,” Doc said.

Clara once more gave her husband a deep, penetrating look. “You know there is no reason to fret about this, Emmett.”

“No reason?” Marty echoed, expecting Doc to immediately argue against that. Instead, the inventor frowned again but said nothing that sounded like a denial.

“You should lie down,” he said. “You’re probably exhausted after tending to Jules last night.”

“Who will fix breakfa--”

“I will. We can be a little late to town today. There are no pressing appointments that need my attention when we arrive.”

Marty’s head turned between Doc and Clara as the conversation progressed. Something was very, very weird here. Why wasn’t Doc freaking out more? His friend usually went into full-blown panic mode if someone in the house came down with a sore throat or a runny nose. Marty would have expected that Doc would have sent him off to town to fetch the doctor by now, not sit around and tell his wife to just lie down for a while.

“You aren’t going to call the doctor?” he finally had to ask, incredulous.

“Not for something like this,” Doc said, not looking at the young man.

“Doc, your wife fainted. I saw it happen. You freak out over colds. How is this not bothering you?”

“I am fine, Marty,” Clara said. “Emmett is right. I am simply exhausted.” She carefully climbed to her feet, Doc helping her do so. When she was erect, she turned to her husband. “I’ll feel better after I lie down for a bit.”

“Most definitely,” Doc agreed. He escorted her across the floor, pausing long enough to say to Marty, “Can you mop up the mess in here?”

“Sure,” Marty said dully, still completely baffled by his friend’s behavior. What the hell was going on?