* * *

Later that night, Doc sat at the small table, hunched over the papers and notes he had assembled pertaining to a new time machine. Marty McFly sat several feet away, on the floor, a deck of cards spread out before him. He had come across the cards the first afternoon they had arrived at the cabin, tucked into a small shelf with dusty and aged books. The deck was missing the king of hearts and the ace of spades, but Marty still managed to play a decent game of Solitaire.

The seventeen-year-old frowned as he dealt out his cards and studied them. Without much conscious thought, he tapped his fingers against the wooden floor in a rhythmic pattern that finally seemed to crack through Doc’s concentration.

“Is that entirely necessary?” the scientist asked mildly, looking up.

Marty didn’t get it, blinking as he turned his eyes away from the cards. “Huh?”

“That tapping. It’s a bit distracting.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t notice it.”

Marty started to turn back to the cards, but Doc stopped him with another word. “You miss your music, don’t you?”

Marty smiled humorlessly. “Yeah,” he said, tossing a card down. “I’d kill for a guitar. I keep having dreams where I’m playing again and…it just sucks not doing it. If I ever get home, I’ll probably get kicked outta the band for being so rusty.”

Doc stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Yeah, well, unless you can make an electric guitar now…. Oh,” he added. “Sorry about the amp.”

Doc blinked a few times. “The amp?”

“Yeah, the one in your lab. I blew it before you called on Friday. It really made a mess, but I didn’t have time to get it cleaned up since I was late to school.”

Doc looked blankly at him a beat, then shrugged. “Oh well…. I suppose that really matters little now.”

Marty frowned as he looked at the cards, recalling the amp… and his botched audition… and his guitar. The last time he had touched it or played it had been late Friday night, while killing time before he’d had to meet Doc at the mall. He wasn’t exaggerating to his friend; he would’ve given a million bucks to have it in his hands now. And also have his Walkman or albums. He missed hearing rock n’ roll -- hearing any kind of recorded music. Not being able to express himself in that way was definitely becoming harder and harder to deal with, especially with all the crap he was living through now.

“Maybe I can do something about that,” Doc said a minute later.

“What? About music?” Marty shrugged as he looked up again. “That’d be cool -- but don’t waste time on that over the time machine. Anyway, isn’t that a problem without electricity?”

Doc tapped his pencil down twice on the papers before him. “The new time machine will almost certainly need to operate on steam power,” he said.

Marty was confused by the change of subject for a second, then realized Doc must’ve misinterpreted his words. “What are you thinking?” he asked, setting the cards aside to get up and join Doc at the table.

Doc pointed to some scribbles of formula that was pretty much Greek to Marty. “It’s the only source of power available in this century -- technologically speaking -- to power a vehicle to eighty-eight.”

“So would you use that to create the 1.21 jiggowatts?” Marty asked. “Or will that take electricity?”

“Both,” Doc said. “The way I see it, I’ll need steam power to turn an electric generator with a capacitor that can store the accumulated power. Actually, the general function of the flux capacitor is to store the power and release it at the necessary moment, all at once.”

Marty frowned, getting the gist of it. “Will that take long? To collect all that power for a trip through time?”

“Oh yes. Days, weeks -- quite possibly months. Power isn’t the problem right now,” he added. “The technology is.” The inventor flipped the papers back to reveal engineer-type drawings, quite technical in nature. “Microchips are unheard of now, and even vacuums tubes are out. Replacement parts for just the time circuits on the DeLorean weren’t invented until 1947. The new time machine is going to be big and cumbersome, make no mistake.”

Marty recalled the seemingly huge device mounted on the hood of the DeLorean, which took the place of the time circuit control microchips, and nodded. “I never asked how you did it,” he said.

Doc looked confused. “How I did what?”

“Built the DeLorean. How did you even keep that secret from me?”

“Oh. Well, it wasn’t too hard.”

Marty recalled the cluttered confines of Doc’s lab and thought otherwise. “Where’d you even have the car? Not in your lab.”

“I rented a space in Grass Valley,” Doc said, citing the next town over. “There was more security there -- and no ridiculous crackpot rumors to contend with.”

That suddenly explained the numerous absences that Doc had had in the last few weeks before the time machine’s unveiling. “Why’d you keep it from me?” Marty asked, still curious about that point.

Doc’s eyes were on the notes -- he scribbled something down on one corner of the parchment. “I kept it from everybody,” he said. “Only Einie was aware of it -- and he couldn’t talk. The last thing I needed was skepticism or disbelief from anyone -- especially with my only friend. When I had indisputable evidence that it worked, I planned on showing you. And I did.”

Marty had to admit the logic behind that idea. “I didn’t have a clue,” he confessed.

“Yes, well, do you think you would if I wasn’t assembling the time machine under your nose? And telling you precisely what it would be used for? Actually, there were a number of little things that you inadvertently helped me with in regards to the construction.”

Marty blinked, this news to him. “Really? When?”

“Oh, off and on over the last couple years. Why else do you think I needed an assistant?”

The teen shrugged. “I guess I never thought about that,” he admitted.

Doc flipped a couple pages, his attention drifting off. Marty smiled, leaning back in the chair, having missed this side of his friend. He had seldom seen it since Clara had arrived in the inventor’s life. Too bad it wouldn’t last; in just a couple days, the doc would have a wife, and his old friend Marty would really be of little use to him. There were already blatant signs of this -- like Marty being regulated to living solo in the livery stable. Not that he was entirely sure living with newlyweds would be a comfortable or welcome experience, but…. Doc hadn’t even asked him about that. It was just, “I think the best thing with the post-marriage living arrangements will be to have you stay in the stable.”

And the wedding itself was making Marty nervous. Doc had asked him almost immediately if he would be his best man, and Marty accepted that with a nod. He was glad he was getting that chance, but the idea of being up there, before what sounded like a good portion of the town -- including his great-great-grandparents -- during what was going to no doubt be an emotional time…. It was giving him nightmares. What if he accidentally blurted something out when the priest asked if anyone objected to the marriage?

Marty wished he could talk to Doc about this stuff, but a persistent fear of being told that all his insecurities and worries were true kept his mouth firmly sealed.

Maybe it won’t be like that, though, he thought as he studied Doc’s face, set in an expression of intense concentration and thought. But now wasn’t a great time. The teen had seen that look on his friend’s face before, and it meant he was a million miles away.

Marty got up from the table, wandering over to one of the windows and looking outside -- or attempting to do so. It was next to impossible to see anything with the darkness out and lack of streetlights.

“What time are we heading back to town tomorrow?” he asked.

There was a lengthy pause before the reply came. “Oh, late morning, I imagine. So long as the weather isn’t bad. Is it still snowing out?”

Marty squinted. “I can’t tell.” He turned away from the glass to look at his friend again. “Did you need any help with that stuff?”

Another long pause, the words taking time to sink into Doc’s head. “No, I’m fine. Just fine.”

“Okay, then,” Marty said under his breath, wandering back to his card game. The last thing he wanted to do was distract his friend while he worked on ways to get them back home. Solitaire, Marty thought as he sat back down on the floor. The game that’s the story of my life….

* * *

This was worse than the night he had proposed to Clara!

Doc stood before the mirror in his home, staring at his reflection. His eyes looked wild, frantic, mirroring the very sensation that was pumping through his veins at the moment. There was just an hour left before the wedding ceremony. And for some reason, he couldn’t remember how to knot his tie! He, a man of science, who had dozens and hundreds and perhaps thousands of facts stored in his brain. Who had created a time machine. Who had conceived and executed a number of inventions, practical or otherwise. He had worn ties before, of course, but his fingers seemed to have forgotten the proper maneuvers of knotting it around his neck. And on his wedding day, noless.

“Hey, Doc? You okay?”

The inventor jumped a little at the sound of Marty’s voice to his left. He tore his eyes away from his reflection to look at his friend. Marty, too, was dressed up, in a suit that Seamus McFly was kindly loaning him for the day’s ceremony. His tie was already on properly.

“I can’t remember,” he muttered.

Marty blinked. “Huh? You can’t remember what?”

“I can’t remember how to knot my own tie.” Doc felt his blood pressure rise at the possible implications of this. “Great Scott -- what if I’m having a stroke? My memory has always been impeccable. The rejuvenations that they conducted on me in the twenty-first century should have prevented any medical tragedy of this sort -- my body’s internal timepiece was reset about thirty years -- but what if there was deterioration, or genetic intolerance? I’m an old man; what am I doing getting married? I could drop dead any day, and then what would happen to Clara?”

Marty held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Doc. I think you’re getting a little carried away, now.”

“How so? My mortality is a grave concern -- pardon the pun. Clara’s thirty-five years my junior -- or sixty-five years my senior, depending on the perspective. Regardless, right now my chronological age is more than twice hers. Without regular physical maintenance, there’s no telling if my rejuvenation will last the allotted number of years that I was told. There are far too many diseases and accidents that are much more rare, if not eradicated entirely, by the early twenty-first century.”

“Doc!” Marty looked more than a little frustrated by the inventor’s ramblings. “Look, it’s only a tie. I can do it if you want.”

Doc yanked the piece of fabric from around his neck and shook his head. “Maybe this is a mistake,” he said. “I can’t get married! Clara can’t possibly know what she’s getting herself into.”

“Oh, I think she does,” Marty said. “Believe me.”

“Why?” Doc asked. He ran a hand through his hair, which was already nearly standing on end from his agitation throughout the day. Once more, he had the overwhelming wish that this day was in the past, nothing more than a memory. “By the time she’s my age, I’ll likely be dead. Long dead. She deserves much better than that.”

Marty sighed. “Doc, look, she doesn’t care about that, or about anything else. She loves you. And you’re not having a stroke or whatever -- you’re just nervous. Stop thinking about everything so much. You don’t want to faint at the church, do you?”

Doc felt his face pale at the very notion -- which, amazingly, had not yet occurred to him. “Good Lord, what if that happens?”

“I guess then the whole wedding will have to be called off,” Marty said dryly. “Calm down, Doc. I think between the blizzard and Clara’s brother getting stuck in Reno, you’ve hit the maximum amount of possible wedding disasters. Here, I can do the tie -- I think. I’ve never put one on someone else before, but it can’t be too hard.”

Doc’s mind continued to whirl like a blender as he bent over to allow Marty an attempt with the neckwear. “I’ll never be able to forgive myself if I faint in the church,” he said. “What would Clara think? She could change her mind about me; if I cannot remain erect through our wedding ceremony, what would that say about the rest of our life together?”

The teen smiled faintly. “I’m sure it’d bother her a lot more if you passed out for the wedding night. My uncle Toby fainted at his wedding,” he added. “It was no big deal.” Doc winced as Marty tightened the tie a shade too hard. “If you want, I could get some smelling salts and carry ‘em around.”

Doc was too distressed to offer an immediate reply. His brain was still stuck on the mental image of him fainting during the peak of the ceremony. Or, worse yet, when the minister asked if anyone present would object to the wedding. What would everyone say if that happened? “Do you really think it’s possible I could faint?” he asked his friend.

“No -- it was a joke, all right? I’m just trying to lighten things up. Relax a little, Doc. Seriously,” he added. “I need to get this thing on straight.”

The inventor took a few deep breaths, trying desperately to slow the pace of his heart, which was floating somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. “I wonder if Clara is nervous?” he said softly.

“Probably,” Marty said. “But you won’t know until later ‘cause you can’t see her before the ceremony, remember? Okay.” The teen stepped back. “How does that look?”

Doc turned back to the mirror. The tie was now on. Doc straightened it a smidgen, then nodded once. “Good. Thank you.”

Marty looked at one of the clocks as Doc tried to smooth out his hair -- an attempt almost in vain. “We might wanna head to the church now. There’s probably stuff you need to do there.”

Doc nodded once, reaching for the hat he had purchased with the suit. “The rings!” he said, remembering something very important. “Do you have them?”

Marty nodded. “In my pocket. Don’t worry. All you gotta do is get to the church and say the vows.”

Doc reached for his overcoat, buttoning it tightly over his suit. The snow was still coming down outside, hard. It was fortunate the church wasn’t too distant from his home. “And not faint,” the scientist added as he wrapped a scarf around his neck. “Or have an aneurysm, coronary, or other potentially fatal or debilitating attack.”

Marty sighed as he put on his own coat, hat, and scarf. “Chill, Doc.”

The walk to the church took half an hour. The biting winds and driving snow were to blame. By the time he reached the church, the inventor was feeling very “chill” indeed -- but not much calmer.

Maggie McFly met him in the front room of the church, where guests were removing the layers of coats and scarves and stomping the snow and ice from their boots.

“Oh, good, you’ve made it,” she said as Doc removed his own layers. “Miss Clayton was gettin’ concerned ‘bout your delay.”

“What time is it?” Doc asked, faintly alarmed.

“A quarter ‘til two. Guests are still arrivin’, an’ a bit delayed from the weather. Mr. Eastwood,” she added with a nod, noticing Marty as he emerged from his layer of overcoat.

“You can call me Clint,” Marty said to his ancestor. “It’s okay-- er, all right.”

Maggie nodded once, but did not comment. She was rigidly formal. She looked back to Doc. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Brown?”

“No, no, I think I’m all right,” Doc said, though he felt anything but. He almost wished he could have a drink, though the effect it would produce in his body would be far too sedating. If he didn’t want to faint during the ceremony, he most certainly did not want to be rendered unconscious for the next few hours.

Maggie gently took hold of his arm. “You’ll be wantin’ to greet your guests,” she said, leading him into the nave of the church. It was the inventor’s first look at it since the previous week. He had left the details of decoration to Clara, mostly because she had assured him he needn’t trouble himself in that area -- and it was out of his area of expertise.

Now, as he looked around, he couldn’t help feeling pleased by the touches that had been placed around the public building. Rather than collections of flowers, which were in hibernation at this time of year, Clara and her helpers had collected fresh boughs of pine and fir, bundling them together with ribbons and small clippings of holly berries. Clusters of these were carefully set along the aisleway, hanging from the sides of the pews. Similar collections were placed on the sills of the window. Oil lamps were set in the midst of the foliage clippings, the glow from their flames melting the ice that would have otherwise clung to the panes of glass.

At the end of the aisle, at the front of the church, stood the pastor, Richard Hardy, at the wooden podium. The man was currently engaged in a conversation with Seamus McFly, who held his nine-month-old son, William, in his arms. Doc glanced at the pews, which were only filled for the first three or four rows. The faces populating the room were fairly familiar to the scientist. He didn’t not recognize a single soul there, which surprised him. He hadn’t realized that he and Clara had become acquainted with so many people that were interested in witnessing their nuptials.

Maggie led him to the front of the church, to the pastor. “The groom t’be has arrived,” she said.

Pastor Hardy turned away from Seamus and gave him a warm smile. “Emmett, how are you doing this afternoon?”

Doc managed a smile for the clergyman. “It’s my wedding day,” he said, as if that explained everything.

The pastor’s smile widened. “And you’re nervous, aren’t you? Nothing to be ashamed of,” he added. “Many couples that I have joined together have had such feelings. I think it is perfectly natural and normal to feel that way about such a large life commitment.”

The inventor sighed. “Nothing’s gone quite right today,” he said. “As illogical as it may be, I’m starting to wonder if it’s some sort of sign.”

Pastor Hardy shook his head once. “No, I don’t think you need to look so deeply into things. Storms like this are common this time of year. Certainly the weather is beyond your control. Just remember to breathe while you’re up here, and you’ll be just fine.”

Doc wondered.

A few minutes later, Marty arrived at the front of the church. He glanced at Seamus before he turned to his friend, his eyes lingering on the baby -- his great-grandfather -- a moment. “Did you want to start now?” he asked the inventor. “It’s almost two, and I guess Maggie checked in with Clara in the loft. She’s good to go.”

Doc swallowed hard, his mouth almost painfully dry. He felt dizzy, and once more the worry of fainting at the most inopportune moment blazed in his brain. He felt even more anxious now then he had when he was going to propose to Clara!

Meanwhile, Marty waited for his answer -- as did Seamus and the pastor. “Yes, I suppose so, if she’s ready,” he managed softly.

Pastor Hardy gave him another encouraging smile as he moved to his podium. Seamus took his hand for a moment and gave it a brief shake. “Good luck, man,” he said sincerely, with his own smile. “Maggie an’ Will an’ I’ll be right up front f’’you.”

Doc nodded stiffly, unable to speak. He followed Marty down the aisle, to the entryway where they had come in. The room was empty, filled now with the melting chunks of snow that had been tracked in and the outer wear of all the guests. Stairs were at the far end of the room, to the left; they led to the loft, where Clara was waiting until the proper moment to emerge. The inventor glanced into the main room of the church, then began to pace back and forth, quite rapidly. The room was too small and too stuffy for him.

“Doc, you don’t need to wear out the floorboards like that,” Marty said after a moment. “You’re making me nervous, now.”

“I can’t help it,” Doc said. He stopped suddenly, looking at his friend. “This is a mistake,” he said in a low voice. “What was I thinking? Getting married at my age? And in another time noless!”

“It’s not a mistake,” Marty said, sounding unnaturally calm to Doc’s skewed point of view. “Don’t worry about it.”

The inventor shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “Maybe you were right. I have my commitment and responsibility to time. This is too dangerous.”

“Well, it’s not like we can go anywhere else,” Marty said, sounding a little testy. “If you break it off now, Clara’ll never forgive you.”

“But if something should happen to history--”

“Screw history, Doc,” Marty said, his voice sharp. The heads of those sitting furthers back turned in their direction. The teen seemed to notice the reaction and lowered his voice a little. “Time obviously doesn’t give a shit about us. The world won’t fall apart if you marry Clara, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Doc didn’t think that was entirely the root of the problem. Why had he even bothered to propose if that was the case? He loved Clara -- he wasn’t doubting that. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. But, Great Scott, what if something happened to him, and he widowed her? Or what if the space-time continuum unraveled from the unnatural marriage between a time traveler from the future, and a woman who was supposed to have died in a ravine?

Marty was still staring at him, standing before the front door of the church and simply barring the exit from Doc. “You’re not doing anything wrong with marrying her,” he said softly. “Don’t think that you are, and don’t think that she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life with you. She does, Doc. Trust me. Clara’s a…a nice woman.”

It was the second time in two days that the teen had complimented Doc’s love. The surprise was enough to cut through the almost numbing terror that currently held the scientist’s brain in its grasp. “You mean that?” he asked, stopping his frantic pacing.

Marty hesitated a moment before nodding. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I do. And if you don’t go out there and walk down the aisle…not only will Clara never forgive you, I’ll never forgive you.”

Doc licked his dry lips. “Then you mean to say you approve of this?”

Another almost tentative nod. “Yeah, I guess so. Do it, Doc. Marry her. She’s the one -- like Jennifer is for me.” The last words were delivered in little more than a whisper.

The inventor stared at his old friend, feeling choked up with sudden emotion. He knew that it had taken a lot for Marty to say what he had; this was much more than a simple comment like the one he had made a couple nights previous.

The piano in the church suddenly began to play, the pastor’s wife hitting it with gusto. Marty stepped forward, looking up at his friend. “Time to go,” he said, giving him a nudge towards the aisleway.

For a moment Doc wasn’t sure that his feet would move -- but the push from Marty helped propel him forward, and the subsequent steps were not difficult to make. He was on his way; after almost sixty-seven years of being a bachelor, he was finally going to get married.

* * *

Marty fulfilled his role of best man to Doc as best he could, in spite of the surrealness of the situation. Aside from the work he had done that day, running around between Clara and Doc and trying to make sure that neither bolted in a last minute panic, his other big job was keeping the rings safe and secure until it came time to hand them over at the ceremony. Unlike weddings in the future, there was no ring bearer or flower girl at this ceremony. In fact, the only people at the front of the church -- beyond Doc, Clara, and the priest -- were Marty and Maggie McFly. With Clara’s brother, Christopher, unexpectedly trapped in Reno, Clara had asked Marty’s ancestor if she could serve as the second legal witness to the ceremony. Maggie accepted without protest, though Marty knew that Doc had to be squirming a little with his family officially being involved in this wedding, now.

Unlike that morning, the wedding ceremony itself went off without any sort of hitch. Marty got Doc down the aisle, then Clara came down. The teen had been a little surprised by her clothes -- she wasn’t wearing a fancy, gauzy white wedding dress, but instead a cream-colored gown that simply looked like a very nice dress -- something that could be worn another time, in other words. There was no train or anything of the sort, and the skirt wasn’t poofy at all. Clara didn’t wear a veil, either; not really. There was a hat that matched the dress, with a little netting that fell before her face, but -- like the gown -- Marty could envision the hat getting another use out of it down the road.

Marty looked at Doc’s face as the schoolteacher headed their way. The scientist stood stiffly, looking as if someone had forgotten to remove the hanger from his suitcoat. His eyes were wide, focused on Clara as she approached, but instead of a look of happiness, he looked…terrified. The teen gave his friend a nudge in the ribs. “Smile, Doc,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

The inventor bore his teeth in something that looked more grimace than grin. Clara looked at him, her own face radiating an expression that was pure anticipation and joy. She took in Doc’s face and laughed once, gently, not taking any offense to her betrothed’s reaction at her approach. Doc tensed at the sound, then abruptly relaxed, perhaps sensing that Clara was not about to turn and bolt from the church. A real smile turned his lips as she stepped to his side and turned to face the pastor.

The ceremony itself was brief, but Marty found his mind wandering a little as the pastor read from the Bible, reviewing the importance of the sanctity of marriage. He looked at the small group gathered in the church pews, dressed in their best, and realized that probably more people were showing up for Doc’s wedding now than would be in the future. He also found himself holding his breath as the pastor asked the question if anyone could object or cite a reason as to why Doc or Clara shouldn’t be married.

I can, he thought. Boy, I can!

But he didn’t say a word. Marty wasn’t stupid; he knew that Doc and Clara coming together was one of those things he just couldn’t stop. They were like two magnets being drawn together. He had tried a few months ago and his efforts had been wholly in vain. He knew that this was simply a thing he couldn’t prevent; that, even if he wasn’t around, the same events would be happening. Better to accept it like an adult than rage and pout about it like a child. (Not that Marty hadn’t already tried that other tactic. Naturally, it had given him no results whatsoever unless one counted upsetting his friend.)

Finally, the time came to exchange the rings. Marty removed them from his pocket, holding them out to Doc and Clara on the flat of his palm. The silver bands caught the light of the candles and lamps, gleaming slightly. Doc looked at Marty and smiled as he picked up Clara’s ring, then turned to his bride. “I, Emmett Lathrop Brown, make this vow to remain by your side as faithful husband, through good times and bad” -- Clara smiled at the inventor’s slight emphasis on that one particular word, a joke that no one save for herself and Marty would understand -- “in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do we part.”

The schoolteacher beamed as Doc slid the ring home on her finger. The pastor turned to her, now, as she removed Doc’s band from Marty’s palm. “I, Clara Elizabeth Clayton, make this vow to remain by your side as your faithful and loving wife, through good times” -- she smiled wider as she said that --”and bad, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do we part.”

She, too, slipped the ring on Doc’s finger -- but when it hit the knuckle, it abruptly stopped. Clara pushed, a hiss of air escaping from her lips as she tried to slide it past the joint. Doc grunted, clearly discomforted by this move. Clara stopped a moment, looking up at her almost-spouse’s face, no doubt checking to see if she should proceed. Doc reached up and tried to squeeze the ring on, working it a little back and forth in an effort to move it. His cheeks flushed from the effort, and Marty had the crazy urge to laugh at the absurdity of the scene before him. He clamped his jaw shut hard, refusing to give in to his amusement during what was supposed to be a serious and solemn ceremony.

The ring finally popped into place. Doc straightened up, a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He gave a quick, nervous smile towards their small audience, which had been whispering softly during the struggle. Doc held up his left hand, which now bore the wedding band, and there was a kind of sigh from the people, almost a release of tension.

“I guess after six decades of bachelorhood, my fingers aren’t used to things like wedding rings,” he quipped.

Marty couldn’t supress his own grin with the comment, glad that Doc wasn’t strung out so much that he couldn’t see the humor in the situation.

The pastor gently cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand. Doc quickly took Clara’s hands again, giving them a squeeze. She looked faintly nervous, probably due to the ring snafu, but managed smile for the scientist. “With the exchange of rings, and the vows, I now pronounce you both man and wife,” he announced. “You may kiss the bride.”

Marty found himself averting his eyes as Doc leaned forward to close the deal. Seeing them kiss or touch each other still made him feel weird. Maybe because he just never thought of Doc being a guy… and a guy who wanted or needed those kinds of things. He looked up from the floor after a moment, just in time to see them break apart. Both Doc and Clara were beaming, their smiles wide enough to almost crack their faces.

It’s done, he realized, feeling a little sad and oddly wistful. They’re married now, ‘til death do they part, just like those vows.

* * *

After the wedding ceremony, and some photographs before the church of the newlywed couple -- including one of Marty with both; Doc had insisted -- people headed for the Palace Saloon where the reception and celebration was to continue. The McFlys took Marty with them in their wagon, as Doc and Clara were brought to the saloon in a sleigh that the mayor had loaned them for the occasion. Marty was quiet on the drive over, already aware that things were changing; normally, he would have ridden with his friend.

His great-great-grandparents seemed to sense his melancholy, and worked to bring him out of it. During the past few months since his arrival, Marty had gotten to know this early branch of his family tree a little -- much to Doc’s discomfort. Seamus was a good guy, only about five years older than Marty himself right now, but Maggie was a little more reserved, cooler towards Marty. He wasn’t entirely sure why she acted that way towards him. Maybe something about their first meeting, when he had knocked himself out after falling into one of their fences, still nagged at her. He had been unconscious for several hours; perhaps she had seen something on his clothes that tipped her off that he was not of this time. Or maybe he said something during those blank hours. The news from Doc that he apparently blabbed in his sleep still unnerved him, and made him wonder if it had happened before the last couple months.

Today, however, Maggie’s attitude towards him had clearly thawed. She sat sideways in the buckboard seat at the front, William on her lap. The baby was bundled snugly in a warm layer of blankets. The snow and wind had eased up a little, but it was still way too cold out in Marty’s opinion. He thought wistfully of cars, and of the heaters that were standard in every vehicle. Too bad that was still about fifty or sixty years away.

“I heard that you’re t’be stayin’ in the ‘smithin’ shop,” Maggie said as they headed for the main drag of Hill Valley.

“Uh, yeah,” Marty said, a bit caught off guard. He didn’t realize that this was wide knowledge. “For a while. I can’t move into the schoolteacher’s cabin with them.”

Maggie nodded her head once. “Aye,” she agreed. “Tis very kind of the school board lettin’ Miss Clayton -- pardon me, Mrs. Brown, now -- continue with her teachin’ ‘til spring’s end.”

“Did they finally decide that?” Marty asked. “I thought it was still under debate?”

“Aye. T’was settled early this afternoon. Mrs. Brown was told, and she shared the news with me b’fore the wedding ceremony. I don’t mean to gossip,” she added, almost hastily. “I thought sure’n you had been told.”

“Not yet,” Marty muttered, but he couldn’t entirely fault Clara or Doc for that. They’d had other things on their mind the last hour or so.

Maggie looked a little flustered by Marty’s comment. “Well, I apologize if I spoke out of turn. Mrs. Brown made a beautiful bride, didn’t she? I haven’t seen a happier couple than the ‘smith and the schoolteacher in a while. Tis plain their marriage will be good and bountiful.”

The last word brought to mind kids, for some reason. Without stopping to think about the words, the teen blurted out, “But they won’t have any kids. They don’t want ‘em.”

Maggie blinked, her brow wrinkling in a frown. “Kids,” she echoed slowly, sounding as if she was repeating a foreign expression. Marty wondered if the slang had even been invented yet, and quickly corrected himself.

“Children. Babies. Y’know….”

His great-great grandmother’s cheeks seemed to pink up a little at her realization of the topic at hand. “Well,” she said, almost stiffly, “sometimes children come along regardless. I wouldn’t be thinkin’ too quickly that little ones won’t be runnin’ about someday. Mrs. Brown is still a fair age.”

The idea of Doc and Clara as parents was so weird that Marty’s brain simply couldn’t envision it. “Not them,” he said again, positive about the matter.

Seamus spoke up then, shifting the topic to something else -- asking about how Marty was enjoying Hill Valley, working as an assistant to the blacksmith, that sort of thing. The teen’s mind was still stuck on the prior subject, and his responses to his ancestor was distracted, almost automatic.

What if Doc and Clara had kids? Age wasn’t a factor with fathering children as much as it was for mothering them. To the seventeen-year-old, Clara was old, but not that old. In the 1980’s, women were having kids in their thirties and even their early forties. But things were different now in this time. Age expectancy -- and just aging in general -- was weirdly out of whack in Marty’s eyes. There weren’t a lot of people Doc’s age in Hill Valley that he had seen, and certainly no one with his stamina and energy. He had claimed once that with the rejuvenation in the future, his biological clock had been turned back thirty to forty years. In which case, Doc was biologically now about Clara’s age.

But Doc said they won’t have kids, Marty thought, clinging stubbornly to the remembered conviction in the inventor’s voice. And if he’s a scientist, he probably knows things he can to to do stop that from happening, things better than what they have now to keep people from getting pregnant.

Maggie’s words nagged at him the rest of the drive to the saloon. He was so preoccupied he missed the look his great-great grandparents exchanged when it became clear to them that the teen’s mind and attention were elsewhere.

“You all right, lad?” Seamus asked gently as they turned onto the main street of Hill Valley.

“I’m fine,” Marty answered automatically.

There was a hesitation before Seamus spoke again. “You’re not aimin’ t’be hittin’ the bottle again t’night? Sure’n it would be a mistake.”

Marty felt his cheeks redden at the reminder that his great-great grandfather had seen him at his worst. The last thing he felt like doing was making a big scene like that on a night like this. “No,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Ironically, however, when they arrived at the Palace Saloon & Hotel and stepped through the swinging doors to join the rest of the guests from the wedding ceremony in celebrating, Marty found a drink in his hand in under five minutes. It wasn’t entirely his choice -- one of the revealers handed it to him from the bar when a toast was announced to the happy couple. He raised it without taking a taste, smiling thinly as Chester, the bartender, began the first toast.

“I remember the first time I saw Emmett Brown,” he said, nodding to where Doc and Clara sat, at a table near the window. “He came in here on New Years Day, wandered in like he didn’t know where he was. He was dressed in some odd lookin’ threads, and wanted to know where to find the blacksmith. ‘Course, Ol’ Joe wasn’t around no more, but his tools were. By the end of the day, Emmett had made himself right at home there -- and he’s become a helluva ‘smith!”

Marty was intrigued in spite of himself; he had never grilled Doc for the nitty gritty details about his early days out here before.

Doc smiled sheepishly at Chester’s words. “Well,” he said, “I think the people of this town deserve their own praise. Life here certainly hasn’t been easy, not with all of this untamed wilderness and men like Buford Tannen around.”

There was a rumble of agreement from the others in the saloon, and Marty earned a few looks from the various patrons and guests scattered about the room. He managed a faint smile, but said nothing. He didn’t really want to remember that day he rid the town of Buford Tannen -- mostly because of the other things that went on immediately afterwards and contributed to his currently stranded circumstances.

A couple more people made some toasts to the new bride and groom -- the mayor and a man who seemed to be the head of the school board, as he added a comment about the decision made earlier in the day. Then Seamus, standing to his left, gave him a faint nudge. Marty glanced at him.

“Speak, lad,” he urged softly. “Sure’n you have some kind words for him.”

Marty winced inwardly, but mustered a faint smile for his ancestor’s benefit. “I guess,” he murmured. “But I can wait ‘til everyone else gets a chance to say something.”

Or not. Seamus raised his own glass to collect the attention of the others in the room. “Clint Eastwood has somethin’ to share,” he announced.

All eyes -- including those of Doc and Clara -- immediately turned to Marty. The teen blinked, first surprised, then a little annoyed at his great-great-grandfather. “Uh, well, yeah,” he muttered, trying to stall while he wracked his brain for something to say. He looked at Doc, who gave him a smile. Marty’s eyes flickered to the bottom of the bar glass and the amber colored liquid within. He could almost feel the weight of the gazes on him.

“I’ve known Doc -- ah, Emmett -- a long time,” he began softly, still looking into his glass. “Everyone in town knew him -- knew of him, I guess. But I didn’t get to know him as a person until a few years ago, when I started helping him out on projects. He’s been more like a father to me than my own -- and a great friend. Always pretty much there for me, even if I wasn’t always there for him,” Marty glanced up at the inventor for a second, then back into the depths of his glass as he recalled the past three months.

“And now he’s married,” he said softly, half to himself. “I’m glad he was able to find someone for him, after all this time. And it’s great that the person he found is someone like Clara. I hope they have a good life together.”

Marty raised his glass and took a drink from it without much thought as to the contents of the glass. The bitter, burning taste of the brew hit his tastebuds a moment later and he almost coughed. He stopped himself in time, knowing that to cough would be to choke -- but as a result he was forced to gulp, quickly, all of the liquid in his mouth. It blazed a path down his throat to his stomach.

He quickly set the glass down on the bartop and looked at Doc across the room. The inventor’s expression was a faint smile, but his eyes were surprised, a bit concerned, and a bit disapproving.

It’s not my fault I forgot it wasn’t Pepsi, Marty thought, raking the back of his hand across his forehead. The taste of the drink brought back a number of unpleasant, nauseating memories. He wondered if he’d get mocked this time if he asked for a glass of water.

There were a couple more toasts for the new, happy couple -- Seamus even made one, reciting what he claimed was a blessing from the “old country,” Ireland. Then the music began, along with eating and dancing. Marty hung back from the revelry and remained at the bar, sitting on a stool. He wasn’t feeling so hot, for reasons he couldn’t entirely pinpoint. Maybe it was the flashbacks that one taste of alcohol had provoked; maybe it was the realization of the day’s weighty changes; maybe it was just the stress of the day. He knew he should eat something, that it might make him feel better, but the idea of food -- the smells, even -- turned his stomach. He also thought about lying down and closing his eyes to escape a headache that was becoming more irritating by the moment, but the thought of retreating to the livery stable, alone, made the notion unappealing. So he remained where he was, taking small sips of some sarsaparilla -- root beer -- that Chester had given him in lieu of water.

Doc, who was frequently the center of friends and neighbors right now, or attached to Clara in some way, shape, or form, made his way to the teen’s side a half hour after the toasts had concluded. He looked deeply into Marty’s face before he spoke, his own face solemn for the first time since the wedding ceremony.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Marty lifted his shoulder in a shrug, determined not to ruin his friend’s big day. “Been better,” he said, honestly. “How does it feel to be a married man now?”

“Wonderful,” Doc said softly. His eyes locked on Clara, chatting with a few women at the other end of the room. “I’m glad I didn’t wait any longer to do this.”

“So I guess you’ve gotten past that whole calling it off idea,” Marty said, managing a slight smile at the memory of Doc’s last minute panic in the church.

“Yes,” Doc said. “Thank you for your help in that regard.” He sighed. “It’s been quite a day.”

“Yeah, it has,” Marty agreed faintly. He leaned against the bar top, his head in his hands. “What’s going to happen with your honeymoon now?”

“Well, I…are you all right, Marty?” When he didn’t immediately answer, a faint note of scolding crept into the inventor’s voice. “Just how many drinks have you had?”

“Just that one swallow at the toast,” Marty muttered, closing his eyes for a moment. “I just don’t feel so hot right now. It’s been a weird day.”

There was a pause from Doc. Marty felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder, turning him slightly so that he could look into his face again. “Did you ever have lunch?” he asked. “Maybe if you have something to eat, you’ll feel better.”

“No -- I couldn’t eat if I tried. The bartender gave me this root beer stuff instead of water, but it’s not helping much. My head’s killing me and I just feel... blah.”

“Perhaps you should go lie down, then. I don’t think the reception will be coming to a conclusion in the next hour or so, not as it gets later.”

Marty sighed, rubbing his eyes in the hopes of easing the pressure in his skull. “I don’t want to go back to the stable,” he said. “It’s too cold and quiet.”

Doc seemed to understand the unspoken comment that Marty did not want to be alone. “I see. Well, this is a hotel. Perhaps there is a vacant room here you could use for an hour or so.”

Chester seemed to overhear the comment; at any rate, he was suddenly at their side. “You want a room?” he asked. “I think we might have an empty one. The very one your wife’s brother was to take, in fact,” he added.

“That would be very kind of you,” Doc told him. “I think Clint may feel better after resting an hour or so. I’m afraid I’ve put him through a lot today with the best man duties.” He smiled, almost ruefully, though Marty knew that the reasoning wasn’t true. He’d handled worse things in life than a skittish Doc. It was the other stuff about today -- knowing that his friend’s life was forever altered -- that was so hard.

“Well, I s’pose that’d be all right,” the bartender said. He looked towards the other end of the bar. “Joey! Show Mr. Eastwood here to room 111!”

Marty didn’t have any time to protest the idea. Before he knew it, he was being escorted from the room by the bartender’s assistant, a young man about Marty’s own age. Joey led him up the stairs, down a brief hallway, and to a room near the back of the corridor. “Here you are, Mr. Eastwood,” he said as he unlocked the door. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, I’m fine,” Marty said. He managed a smile. “Thanks.”

He stepped into the room and closed the door, leaning against it a moment. The sounds of the celebration had dimmed; he had to strain his ears a little to catch the noises. He still didn’t want to particularly be alone right now, but this was better than being at Doc’s place.

He walked across the floor of the room and set his root beer down on the small table beside the bed. The room was furnished fairly sparsely -- there was a double bed, a couple pieces of furniture that included the table next to the bed, and an arm chair, and mirror on one wall. A small fireplace stood in one corner of the room, the grate black and cold. Marty took a moment to glance out the small window -- it was very white and frosty outside -- then lay down on the bed. He felt a little better once prone, but a general sense of ickiness nagged at him. Maybe it was the chill in the room. Maybe it was the knowledge that Doc was now married and everything -- everything -- was going to be changed, big time. Or maybe it was just his headache.

He drifted off before he could really pin down the cause.

* * *

He was dreaming of her again. Of her face, the touch of her hand on his cheek, the feel of her lips against his. And then, inexplicably, she was moving away from him, watching him with a sad look as he felt himself being pulled back, away.

“No,” he said, trying to fight against the sensation -- a fight that seemed to be beyond his control. “Jennifer. Jennifer!”

“Shhh… hush, now.”

The unfamiliar feminine voice was enough to propel Marty fully awake. He opened his eyes with a start -- and saw a young woman’s face bending over him, a look of obvious concern knitting her brow. He sat up quickly, his head swimming a little from the abrupt motion.

“What’s going on?” he asked immediately, feeling entitled to the question. “Who are you?”

The young woman leaned back -- and, as she shifted in the light of a single lamp, Marty noticed she was as young as he was, or perhaps a year or two older. Her hair was long, blond, hanging loose down her back. And Marty saw that she was dressed somewhat unusually for the times. Instead of a prim, long dress that most of the women wore around town, her garments were a bit more revealing. Her dress was low cut, her skirt barely hit her knees, there was a lot of lace, and she was clearly wearing makeup. Marty hadn’t seen anyone wear makeup back here…except--

His eyes bugged out a little as he looked at her. “You’re a pro-- saloon girl,” he blurted out. “What are you doing in my room?”

The young woman arched an eyebrow at him. “I beg your pardon? This is my room… usually,” she added. “I wasn’t sure if you had already had a girl for the night.”

That comment was enough to send Marty right off the bed. “Whoa, wait a minute, I don’t…I didn’t…I was just taking a nap!”

“Oh, well…perhaps you might want to lie back down,” she added as the teen staggered back against the wall. His balance was off, probably from getting up at lightspeed. “Are you ill?”

“No, I’m fine,” he muttered. “Unless sarsaparilla has alcohol in it.” Although a little dizzy, the headache and nausea that had been bothering him earlier had gone. Maybe he was just hungry now; he was definitely thirsty. He eyed the root beer a couple feet away. It would probably be warm and flat now, but he wasn’t sure if he really cared.

The blonde nodded, almost knowingly. “Many of the drinks here can be rather stiff and hard,” she agreed, “but not the sarsaparilla.” She perched on the edge of the bed, watching Marty through a pair of soft brown eyes. “You can sit down,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.”

Marty edged his way over to the armchair and took a seat, keeping a distance of a few feet between him and the stranger. She stared at him for a moment before speaking again. “You’re Clint Eastwood, aren’t you?” she asked. “I’ve seen you about.”

“Yeah,” Marty said, a little uncomfortable that she already knew his identity. Of course, in Hill Valley now, such information wasn’t too hard to uncover. “And you are…?”

“Emma,” the blonde said. She smiled shyly at him, something in her expression stirring the dimmest echo of recognition for Marty. This girl looked familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on who she reminded him of just then. “What are you doing up here, all by your lonesome?” she asked.

“Like I said, I was taking a nap,” Marty said, unable to thoroughly relax under her gaze. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier.”

“But you’re feeling better now?” Emma asked.

I was feeling great until you had to wake me up! Marty thought. “Sure,” he said instead. He looked towards the window, and was surprised when he saw that it was dark out. “What time is it?”

“It was half past seven when I came up here,” Emma said. “Were you at the blacksmith’s wedding?”

“Uh, yeah…. Is that still going on?”

“They’re cleanin’ up from it now,” she said.

“Is the blacksmith still down there?”

Emma shook her head. “He and his bride are pro’bly in their room here,” she said.

The mention of that made Marty feel extremely odd. The wedding night. He tried not to think about what his friend would be doing tonight -- or even at that very moment. He’s lucky, he thought, feeling almost envious. If only he was back home with Jennifer….

“That’s great,” he said aloud, automatically, then stood. “I should go.”

“Why?” Emma asked. “You can stay here, if you’d like. And if there’s anything you need…I can help you.” The words were issued so casually that for a moment Marty didn’t understand the real meaning behind them.

“Ah…no thanks. I’m not interested. Really.”

Emma stood. In the heeled shoes she wore, she was able to look Marty directly in the eye. “I do my job very well,” she said, her voice almost a purr. She reached out and ran a finger down the curve of his cheek. “I can show you a fine time tonight.”

“That’s all right,” Marty said. But he couldn’t seem to move right then. Something…something was familiar about Emma’s face, the way she was looking at him, peering at him through half-closed eyes.

“Let me get you a drink,” she said. “You make yourself comfortable up here.”

“But I’m telling you, I don’t--”

She was gone before he could finish the sentence. Marty sighed as the door closed behind the girl, then sat back down in the chair. A part of him was urging him to leave now, while he had the chance. But where could he go? His options were fairly limited -- and his reluctance to be completely alone on this night had not wavered. Maybe, he thought, he could stay here all night… and just try to pretend his company was not someone who made money doing some pretty personal entertainment.

Jennifer would probably kill me if she knew I was in a place like this, he thought dimly. But Jennifer was not here and was, in fact, a hundred years away. What she thought and what she would say was a distant future event -- if he ever shared this with her.

His indecision over the matter kept him rooted to the spot. He was still in the chair when Emma returned, a tall glass of something in her hand. She smiled as she closed the door behind him, clearly pleased that he had not ditched her. She took a seat on the edge of the bed, across from him, and handed him the drink. Marty glanced down at the liquid, able to smell the alcohol a good six inches away. He took a small sip, out of politeness, and his eyes nearly bugged out.

No, I don’t think so….

“Now,” Emma said, not noticing his reaction. She reached across the space that separated them to lay her hand on Marty’s. The teen tensed up immediately, but stopped short of jerking away. “What can I do for you?”

The situation had an aura of surrealness to it. “Ah, listen, you know, I’m not comfortable with this whole idea….”

Emma stared at him a moment, then smiled. “Oh, you’ve never done this before, have you? Well, I can assure you that I won’t hurt you.”

Marty’s head was spinning a little -- and not from the drink or his earlier headache. “I’m fine,” he mumbled. “Really.”

Emma patted his hand. “There, there,” she said. “I’m sure you are. But I can help you feel better. Come here.”

Marty let her pull him out of the chair, onto the bed next to her. She turned slightly to face him, smiling again. And, as she did so, he realized why she looked faintly, vaguely familiar to him.

She looks like Jen…around the eyes, a little, and the mouth.

“What’s your last name?” he blurted.

Emma blinked. “Post,” she said.

“Are you from Hill Valley?”

“No,” she said, not elaborating.

“Do you know anyone with the last name of Parker?”

The blonde blinked once. “The mayor?”

That took Marty aback for a moment. He had heard the name of the mayor mentioned before -- but mostly by his first name, Hubert, by Doc. He hadn’t really noticed or thought about the surname of the man, or that he might be a distant relation to Jennifer’s family. Certainly the man didn’t look a thing like his girlfriend, or her father.

“Is the mayor married?” he asked.

Emma looked faintly amused. “No,” she said. “He is a bachelor. So many questions, Clint.”

Marty nodded once, mostly to himself. “Yes,” he said. “Why don’t we just talk for a while?”

“Talk?” Emma frowned. “My time costs something, and if you just want to talk, then I’d best be finding a man who wants to do more than that.”

An idea suddenly occurred to the teen. “I’ll pay you for that, I guess -- to talk. But I don’t want to do anything…else. I have a girlfriend -- she’s just a little far away right now. I’d just like some company tonight.”

Emma frowned even more, her forehead puckering with lines. “You want to pay me to stay here and simply talk with you?” The concept seemed foreign to her.

“Yeah,” Marty said. “If that’s all right -- and if whatever I say doesn’t leave this room.”

“I don’t kiss an’ tell,” Emma promised. She reached up and tugged on a strand of her hair, the gesture causing a lump to form in Marty’s throat; it was oddly like a nervous habit he had noticed in Jennifer. They had to be related, somehow, someway. “I s’pose that’ll be all right, but I never had a man want to do just that before. What do you want to talk about?”

And, knowing that what he said would never leave the room, and that Emma was obligated to listen to him for a fee -- much like a shrink, really -- Marty began to tell her about Doc and Clara.

* * *

Marty intended to get his money’s worth out of the situation. After sharing with Emma the history of his relationship with Doc, and the inventor’s recent marriage to Clara, the teen saw no reason not to spill the beans about the time travel woes as well. He sat at the head of the bed as he talked, the pillows piled behind his back to cushion against the hard wooden headboard. Emma remained perched at the foot of the bed, her dark eyes trained on Marty’s face, listening intensely. As he started to sketch out the events that led to him being in the past, her eyes seemed to glaze over, and her nods seemed more habitual than acknowledgment of understanding. Too much was probably going over her head, but so much the better.

From there, it seemed only natural that he explain a few things about his family -- the way they had changed. And how some of the most important things in his life -- his friendship with Doc, his music, and Jennifer -- had thankfully remained the same. And Jennifer, of course; he told his audience of one how they had met at school, the evolution of their relationship, and how much he missed her.

Emma interrupted a few times to ask questions, but for the most part she let Marty ramble on. The teen took periodic sips from the drink she had brought him, his reasoning twofold -- all the talking was drying his mouth out, and if she thought he was drunk or tipsy, she might be less critical of some of the things coming out of his mouth. Whether or not that gave her the proper impression, he couldn’t tell, but after a couple hours resulted in the eventual draining of the glass, he felt relaxed and sleepy. The combination caused him to lose whatever internal censor he had been using in his conversation with Emma, and his use of some accidental future slang merely increased the frequency of her puzzled frowns.

She finally stood when she saw that he had finished his drink, and collected the empty glass. “Let me get you another one,” she said.

“No, that’s okay, I don't need anything else,” Marty said, rubbing his head. “Not unless you wanna get me some water.”

“Water,” Emma echoed, a note of distaste in her voice. “Are you certain?”

“Do I sound like I am?”

“You certainly sound as if you’ve had enough to drink already,” Emma said, sounding almost amused. She departed and, once alone, Marty was left with just his thoughts for company. He didn’t much like that -- there was too much to think about that he didn’t want to deal with at the moment. Even the swimmy feeling in his head and his mounting fatigue at the now-late hour wasn’t enough to thoroughly distract him. His mind drifted over to Doc, again, and how his friend was just a few rooms down the hall with his new wife.

Wife, Marty thought, the word as strange and foreign in mind as it would be if he said it aloud. Doc had a wife now. He wondered if the inventor would get into more domesticated activities now -- like dusting, vacuuming, or baking things like cakes. It was hard to imagine. Of course, it was also hard to imagine Doc as a parent…and what if that happened?

A faint noise temporarily distracted him, coming through the wall to his right. A woman’s murmur and a the deeper tone of a man’s. And, right on the end of it, was a faint, squeaking kind of sound….

Bedsprings, Marty realized after a moment, frowning in concentration at the audio puzzle. It sounded like someone was bouncing on the bed. Or--

Oh God -- but there are prostitutes around….

When Emma returned a few minutes later -- which Marty spent desperately trying to ignore the sounds coming from the room next door -- she had a glass or murky water in hand. Marty spoke immediately, wanting distraction, blurting the biggest thing on his mind at that moment.

“What kind of things can someone do to not have kids now?”

“Kids?”

“Babies,” Marty amended, taking a few swallows from the water.

Emma tilted her head to one side to look at him. “Nothing’s foolproof,” she said. “If you’re wondering about how the girls here do it, some of us have had babies and given ‘em up. And I knew a girl in Sacramento who had an operation to stop a baby, and she died. But this shouldn’t be your concern,” she added, almost primly.

Marty pressed on a little, his state of mind making him more blunt than he may have been otherwise. “What about to stop pregnancy in the first place?”

“Such talk! You shouldn’t be speaking of these things with me--”

“I’m paying you for this time; I want to know,” Marty said, the implication tha