Marty McFly crept across the quiet yard to the building, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. He knew what he was doing was wrong -- sort of -- and he figured his guilt was what was making him so jumpy. The yard, as far as he could tell, was deserted, the air still and quiet. Yet here he was, literally jumping at shadows as he made his way to the dark building at the far end of the yard. It’s because you know this is wrong, he thought as he went. You know Doc would never let you do this, not in a million years, and you know that if he found out about this he’d kill you. So why, exactly, was he so hell bent on doing it? In a nutshell, it broke down to love -- love of his girlfriend, Jennifer Parker, to be more specific. Marty’s heart skipped a little at the sound of leaves rustling nearby, from the trees that made up the edge of the wild and woodsy portion of the Brown land. A second later a breeze touched his face and he sighed, both in relief that that had been the culprit of the sound, and in disgust that he was being as jumpy as he was. "Jeez, McFly, get a grip," he muttered to himself. He hurried to the large building, deciding the hell with being sneaky and slow about it. He tried the doorknob, finding it resistant to his efforts. No problem there; he had brought keys with him from the hook by the door in the house. Doc had locked the building with three locks -- two padlocks and one in the actual doorknob. Marty figured the inventor had a reason to be paranoid, since the lab did contain two working time machines, but nevertheless he was a little disappointed. The time would come, soon, no doubt, when it would be impossible for him to get into the lab at all without Doc being with him. And that day might come a little sooner if he finds out what you’re going to do tonight, he thought as he unlocked the door. The building appeared dark and deserted, but overly cautious Marty stuck his head around the side of the door and took a quick look, just to make sure he was alone. No one appeared to be inside the building. He felt rather foolish as he shut the door behind him and turned on the overhead lights. Doc and Clara had gone to a lecture about Jules Verne at the university and weren’t expected to be back until after eleven. He had put their kids to bed about a half hour before and, just before leaving the house, had looked in their room to make sure they were sleeping peacefully and not lurking around the house. Even Einstein had been accounted for, napping in Doc’s upstairs study. Although Marty had the keys to the lab in hand, he did not have the keys to the DeLorean time machine. He found them fairly easily, tossed in what appeared to be a bowl filled with change, rubber bands, paperclips, nails, and other miscellanea. Just as his fingers closed around them, he heard the creak of the door opening from behind. Marty froze for a second, trying to figure out if the sound was real or if it was his fired up imagination. There was only one way to find out. He turned around, the keys in hand. Both Jules and Verne, Doc and Clara’s sons, were staring at him from the doorway. But what are they doing here, now? How’d they even know I was out here?! "I knew I heard you go out!" Verne exclaimed. "What are you doing out here?" "I... uh, wanted to check to see if I left my skateboard here," Marty lied, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the keys. Jules slowly walked over to him, his hands on his hips. "In that outfit?" he asked, nodding to Marty’s clothes. In the house, he had changed into the stuff he’d had on when he had left 1885 in October of last year. Besides making a great Halloween costume, it was also coming in handy for the chore he had bestowed upon himself this evening. Marty shrugged at Jules’ question, feeling safer in saying nothing. Verne eyed him, frowning. "Hey, are you gonna go back in time?" Jules answered before Marty had a chance to. "No, Verne, he’s on his way to a costume party." He stared at Marty’s hands, still out of sight. "I know you have the keys to the DeLorean in your right hand. You don’t have to hide them from us." Marty sighed and removed his hands from his pockets. "You guys, I just need to borrow the DeLorean for a few minutes. Quit making it sound like I’m committing some grand felony." "In our family, ‘borrowing’ a time machine without permission is considered so," Jules said. "Where are you off to?" Verne asked. "The Old West?" "September 7th, 1885, here in Hill Valley," Marty answered, wondering if Doc and Clara had ever explained anything about the date to Jules and Verne. "According to the local history, that was the date of the famous train wreck in Eastwood Ravine, which killed Clint Eastwood. Or so it was said," Jules added, looking at Marty knowingly. "Mother and Father have told us all about it." "Well, that’s great," Marty said. "You guys, go back to the house and get to bed before your parents get home. I’ll be in there in a few minutes." He started toward the DeLorean. But Jules and Verne ignored his request. "Why do you want to go back to 1885?" Verne asked him, close on his heels now. Marty sighed. "Why do you want to know?" "That’s easy -- the time machines belong to our family," Jules responded quickly. "We’ve got a definite right to know." "Fine. If you must know, I’m getting a gift for Jennifer. She’s been sick the last week and we missed the prom yesterday. She’d been looking forward to it for more than a month, and I thought I might get her a necklace to cheer her up a little." The older boy frowned. "Why get it one hundred and one years in the past?" he asked. "The jewelry store in the Lone Pine Mall has some fine merchandise." Marty cited his reasons as he unlocked the car. "Things were cheaper back then and I saw something she’d like a lot back there." Jules continued his interrogation as his brother slipped before the front of the car. "How do you expect to pay for your purchase? Do you have any of the correct currency?" Marty sat down in the driver’s seat and stared at the kid. This was actually something he hadn’t thought about before. "Well, no, but--" "If you tried to use the money from today, they’d probably arrest or hang you," Verne predicted, leaning on the hood of the car to watch Marty through the windshield. "You might want us to come along," Jules said, finally voicing the point Marty could tell they had been approaching all along. "We’ve got some money from that time period, and we know both the area and the era." "No way," Marty said at once, shaking his head. "I don’t need you both tagging along. I’m only going to be there long enough to get this necklace and get out of there." "Does Dad know about this trip?" Verne asked, a gleam in his eye. Marty didn’t like the way this conversation was shifting, not at all. "Does your father know you’re up past your bedtimes?" he countered. "I don’t think he’d be as concerned with that as you taking the time machine without his permission," Jules said. "It would be our duty as his children to tell him this information." He looked at his brother. "Isn’t that right, Verne?" Verne nodded. "Sounds like something Dad would want." Marty sighed and resisted the urge to beat his forehead against the steering wheel a few times. "Your dad doesn’t have to know everything," he muttered, under his breath. The kids caught his comment. "I don’t know..." Verne said innocently. "I don’t think he’d approve of you doing this, Marty." "Of course, we could work something out," Jules said, leaning against the car. "Neither Verne nor myself have been away from the present in quite a bit. Not since that jaunt to Ancient Egypt." "And that was for a school project," Verne chimed in. "We haven’t gone anywhere for just fun in even longer!" "This isn’t a pleasure trip," Marty said immediately. "I’m just going to go there, get what I want, and leave. I’ll be there a couple hours, tops." "Fine," Jules said. "Then you shouldn’t mind if we tell our parents of this matter. Come on, Verne, we’d better get back to bed before we’re in trouble, too." Marty leaned out of the car and snagged the back of Jules’ shirt as the boy took a step towards the door. "What is it going to take for you to keep quiet?" he asked, trying to be patient. "Do you want a cut of the money your parents are giving me for watching you both? Some souvenir from the Old West?" "Nothing that complicated," Jules said, turning around. "If you were to include us both in your little outing, our lips would be sealed against any tattling." Marty stared at him for a long moment, both simmering and trying to figure out how the hell he’d gotten backed into such a corner in the first place. "I told you guys, it’s gonna be boring. It’ll be like running an errand to the other side of town or something." "We don’t care," Verne said. "It’d be better than waiting back here." Marty surveyed the options he had been given, realized there really wasn’t any easy way out of this unless he gave up the trip altogether (which he didn’t really want to; he knew he wasn’t going to have another opportunity like this for a while and probably not in the next week). There was only one thing to do. "Fine, all right, you guys can come!" Before the boys could do more than smile, Marty rushed ahead with a list of stipulations. "But you have to be back out here in five minuets in the right kind of clothes or I’m going without you, and you have to promise right now you won’t look up your parents. That can create a hell of a lot of problems and we don’t need that kind of mess. All right?" Jules and Verne glanced at each other for a moment. "Okay," Verne finally said for the both of them. "That’s fine." "Good," Marty said, not entirely assured. He checked his watch, still wearing it even if it was from the present date, not from 1885. "You have five minutes to change. You’d better hurry." The teen expected the kids to run out of the building and back to the house, but instead they headed for a rug thrown over the worn floorboards. Marty watched as they rolled it back and exposed the faint outline of a trap door. Jules hauled it open and both he and his brother vanished down some stairs, to the underground labyrinth beneath the property that contained the other time machine, a Nineteenth Century locomotive that had been grossly modified. Marty had been down there once or twice since Doc and his family had moved to the future last November, but his memory of those trips wasn’t so great that he had one clue about why Jules and Verne were going down there now. He sighed as he settled back in the seat, running his hands around the steering wheel as he thought about his plans for this trip. He’d been telling the truth about what he had intended to do back there -- stashing the time machine outside of town, going to the general store, picking up the necklace, then taking off again. It wouldn’t take more than a couple hours and he saw utterly no point in taking the boys, or even telling Doc. So long as he took care to avoid Doc or Clara back there, his friend would never have to know about it. And all this work would be worth it for Jennifer. She’d been sick for nearly a week, and when Marty had visited her the night before, on what was to be their senior prom night, she had told him the diagnosis was finally in -- strep throat. Despite her insistence that she was contagious and that he might catch it as well from just being around her, Marty had kissed her and given her a gentle hug at the news. It wasn’t serious, but he knew that missing the prom was, to her. Anyway, he felt fine. If he was going to catch it from her, it would have showed up much sooner. He wondered if it might be possible to borrow the time machine when she was well, maybe allow her the chance to make her prom after all-- "We’re ready!" Verne announced, the unexpected sound of his voice causing Marty to jump a little. He turned his head to see both boys in correct attire, Jules shutting the trap door and rolling the rug back over it as Verne lugged a familiar-looking silver case to the DeLorean. "Where’d you guys get the clothes?" he couldn’t help asking. "Father has an extensive wardrobe collection in the basement," Jules said. "One can find clothes from all the time periods we have visited and some we never have. It’s pretty interesting." Marty frowned a little as Verne set the metal case on the hood of the car. "What’s in there?" "Money," Verne said. "Dad has stuff from all these different times." Now the connection was made; Marty remembered seeing the case from the time they had been in 1955 to go after the sports almanac. "Is there some from before 1885?" he asked. Verne unlatched the case and came up with a fistful of bills. "This is all the money that was in the 1885 pocket," he said. Jules took the money from his hand and quickly counted it. "It’s one hundred twenty three dollars," he reported a moment later. "Far more than we’ll need, but better safe than sorry." He handed the money to Marty, who folded it and stuck it in his pants’ pocket. He wondered how much that amount would be in today’s terms. "I don’t think the necklace cost a fraction of that," Marty said. "But you’re right -- it’s better to have too much than too little." "So let’s get going already!" Verne said impatiently as he snapped the case shut. "I’m ready." The boys crowded into the car, sharing the passenger seat, as Marty turned on the time circuits and input the destination time and place: September 7, 1885, 4:00 P.M., Hill Valley, California. He looked at Verne and Jules as he opened the large double doors and sighed to himself. He couldn’t believe how fast they had conned him into bringing them alone -- and they were only eight and ten years old, no less. He hated to imagine how bad they’d be when they were his age. "Remember," he said as he started the car, "we’re going to be there for only a couple hours." The boys nodded. Marty pulled out of the building.
"Tell me again why we had to park so far away," Verne groaned as they walked down a road that was supposed to lead into Hill Valley. Marty vaguely remembered using it when they had gone out of town to set things up on the train spur the night before he had gone home. "I thought you said this was gonna be quick, that we wouldn’t be here real long." "That doesn’t matter," Marty said, his patience nearing an end. It was the third time Verne had asked the same question. "We had to park a couple miles away so no one would see the DeLorean. There’s no place in town to hide it and if Doc saw it now, he’d freak." Marty had picked the time of day for their arrival partialy because he figured Doc might still have his hands full with all of the day’s excitement -- the showdown with Buford Tannen, the locomotive crash, Clara’s rescue.... He might even be out of town, perhaps at the ravine or at Clara’s house. So much the better if he was, Marty figured. The last thing he needed was to be seen, but the last thing any of them needed was for him to be seen with Jules and Verne. That would create far too many questions than Marty would be comfortable with. "Can we eat something when we get into town?" Verne asked, the pitch of his voice carrying a slight whine to it. "I’m starvin’. I’ll die if we gotta hike back again without even a snack." He looked at Marty with an extremely pathetic expression on his face, as if he was a homeless waif. "We’ll see," Marty said, trying to remember if they had any food in the general store. He didn’t want to go to a restaurant -- that would take too long and too many people would see them. Jules stopped suddenly, causing Marty to almost run into him. "I believe that we’re almost to town," he said, pointing to a wooden sign that read: "Hill Valley, 1 Mile." "Good," Verne said. "My legs are killing me." He looked at Marty as they passed the sign. "Are we gonna have to hike back to the DeLorean when we leave?" "I don’t know," Marty replied, thinking about that. "Maybe we can borrow some horses or something." It took them about twenty more minutes before they reached the town, Verne complaining frequently while Jules remained quiet and periodically gave his sibling dirty looks every time he asked a question with that whining pitch in his voice. Marty, meanwhile, gritted his teeth and walked several paces ahead of the kids, wishing that he had waited to run this errand until the kids were also away from the house. The main street was scattered with people -- less than Marty had seen on his first arrival in town but more than he was entirely comfortable with. He pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes and kept his head down as he headed for the general store. "Things sure look different now," Verne said, perking up now that they were in town. "What do you mean?" Marty asked, not looking up. Jules answered the question. "I don’t remember much of anything prior to the age of two, which would be 1889 -- and I don’t quite remember Hill Valley looking this primitive when we left for the future, in December 1896." "How different does it look eleven years from now?" Marty asked, raising up his head enough to glance around. They were right near the point where "Clint Eastwood" had had the match with Buford Tannen in the street earlier that day. "There are many more buildings around than now," Jules explained. "I believe they were in the process of paving the main street, too." Marty stopped, stepping up on the raised wooden sidewalk to the general store. "Guys, watch what you say in here," he said, reaching for the doorknob. "For all I know, your parents could be in there and--" He stopped, frowning, as the door remained closed. He tried to turn the knob, first to the right, then the left. Nothing. "What’s wrong?" Verne asked. Marty tilted the brim of his had back a little, to get a better look at the store. He saw the closed sign right away, dangling in the window. "Damn," he muttered. "It’s closed." Forgetting about his reluctance to be spotted for a moment, he leaned close to the glass and peered inside. He didn’t see anyone in the store and had no idea who the owners might be, let alone where they lived. "What’s that mean?" Verne asked. "Do we get to stay the night here or are you just gonna turn around and go home?" "It would be most logical to stay the night here," Jules said before Marty could even think about the question. "We’ve got plenty of money, we’re all hungry and not up for a hike back immediately. After all, to all of us, it’s sometime in the middle of the night." He yawned suddenly, exaggerating the gesture. "I don’t think I could manage a hike back now." Marty favored the boy with a look of irritation. "We can’t stay here tonight," he said. "It’s too risky." He dropped his voice a little, leaning closer to the boys. "People think I died today!" "So what?" Verne asked, not seeing the point. "Just say you’re an identical twin. It works in movies all the time." "Yeah, right," Marty muttered. "This is real life, not a movie." "Anyway, you didn’t die; the persona you were in this time period did," Jules said. "Verne has a good point. Unless you went around telling people here your life history and mentioning you were an only child or the like, I don’t think they would question it if you told them you were Clint Eastwood’s twin brother." Marty considered it, realizing Jules did have a point. But there were still sticky aspects about the whole matter. "Doc would hear about it," he said. "No doubt." "But if we were just here a night, I don’t think so," Verne said. "Dad would probably figure if you came back here, you’d visit him. An’ even if he heard about you as an identical twin, he’d probably think it was a rumor or something unless he actually saw you." Marty was skeptical. Although Verne was his son, Marty had known Doc on a different level and thought it more likely that the scientist would think something was up -- and investigate the matter fully. "Jeez, I wish we could just camp out," he muttered, knowing they were ill prepared for such a thing. He might be able to tough it out for a night with the clothes on his back, but he doubted the kids would. Not to mention they did need to eat something, sooner or later, and the only store Marty knew of was the one that was currently closed. There was really only one option. "Maybe we should just go back to the DeLor--" "No!" Verne said, scowling, the pitch of his voice coming dangerously close to breaking the sound barrier. "We just got here!" Marty told himself to remain calm. "Verne, you knew this would be a quick trip," he said in a low voice. "You didn’t even get what you came for," Verne said. "I’m not going back to the DeLorean ‘til you do!" He crossed his arms and stared at Marty, his eyes daring him to a challenge. Marty sighed. He didn’t have the time or energy to deal with this. Like the boys, he was both tired and hungry from the hike and having his internal clock wildly off balance from the current time of day. "All right, I give up," he muttered. "Let’s go somewhere to eat so we can discuss this like rational people, okay?" Fairly unfamiliar with the early stage of his hometown, despite staying there for better than half a week several months back, Marty looked around at the nearby buildings in hope that one would be advertising a restaurant business. "Do you guys know where to get food around here?" he finally asked the boys. "Were there any restaurants your parents ever took you to?" "Not any that were built and open now," Jules said. "Why don’t we just go there?" Verne asked, pointing to the Palace Saloon and Hotel across the street. "That’s a hotel, too -- that means they gotta have food." Marty tried to remember if he had seen any children in that establishment from his visit and drew a blank. "Maybe, but I think it’s more like a bar than a restaurant," he said. "I don’t know if you guys would be welcome there." "They have to serve food if it’s advertised as a hotel," Jules said. "How often did you go there when you visited?" Marty thought about that for a minute as he started to walk away from the general store, not entirely sure where he was heading. "A couple times," he admitted. "Then how do you know it’s just a bar?" Verne asked. "Was it when you lived here?" Marty asked, deciding it was his turn to ask some questions. "I don’t know," Verne said, shrugging. "We never went there." There’s your answer, then, Marty thought. He eyed some of the storefronts, searching for something that mentioned food. The closest he could see was the butcher’s place, and unless they were in the mood for raw meat, Marty didn’t see how the man could help them. "Why don’t we just check out the Palace?" Jules asked as Marty crossed the street to inspect the buildings on the other side. Even he was starting to whine a little, sounding far from a self-proclaimed "mature and pragmatic" ten-year-old. Marty rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "Why don’t we do just that, walk into one of the more populated hangouts in town and let everyone see me, even though they think I died today? It would be a great idea. Let’s do it now." His sarcasm was ignored. "Great," Jules said. "Come on, Verne." The boys both took off running before Marty knew what had really just happened. He stood where he was for a second before taking off after them. "Hold it!" he called, only once, before noticing a few people on the street turning to look at him and the kids. Marty lowered his head and slowed down a step or two, but the boys didn’t notice or seem to care. They charged forward, straight for the Palace saloon, moving remarkably fast for people who had been complaining of hunger, exhaustion, and sore feet only a few minutes earlier. Marty caught up with the boys at the doorway in the saloon, for a moment forgetting about his concern with being noticed. The place seemed crowded, and he couldn’t see either Jules or Verne at first. A fear, most unpleasant, prickled at the back of his mind -- what if he lost the kids while out here? Doc would kill him, and if he didn’t, Marty would have to kill himself. Just as he started to get really really nervous, he caught sight of the boys at the bar, both just tall enough to peer across the counter. The teen hurried over. "Sure, we have food," the bartender was saying. "Did you boys come ‘ere with anyone? Or do your parents know you’re here?" "Our parents are out of town," Jules said smoothly. "But one of our friends is supervising us, and he had no issues with us coming here unsupervised." "Right, Jules," Marty said from directly behind the elder child, eliciting a startled jump from the speaker. Jules turned around and had the sense to look rather embarrassed at being caught. "Running away from me when I remember being against your idea is definite approval." "Well, excuse us for being hungry," Verne muttered. "If you weren’t so... what’s the word... parazoid, we coulda been eating now." "It’s paranoid," Jules corrected, his reaction seeming more reflex than a chance to seem smarter than his brother. "And I agree with Verne. You were procrastinating and you knew it." Marty opened his mouth to answer and suddenly noticed something decidedly odd; the entire room was silent. For a saloon, and one that was well populated at that, such a thing was extremely unusual. He looked up from the boys for a minute and saw to his horror that all eyes in the room were set on him. Jaws were hanging open. Marty smiled uneasily and cleared his throat, wishing that Doc had invented something that could turn him invisible. When the room still remained quiet, he finally asked the question, trying to sound as innocent as possible when he spoke. "Is something wrong?" Someone stepped forward to his left and Marty glanced over without thinking. He almost gasped when he saw his great-great grandfather Seamus McFly standing at his side. "We’ve heard that you were killed in the accident in Shonash Ravine this morning, Mr. Eastwood," Seamus said quietly, speaking for the entire room. "Now how is it we’re all seein’ the same ghost? Did you survive the accident?" Marty tried to smile again and failed miserably. He’d known this was going to happen if they spent too much time here! He looked away from Seamus’ curious eyes to the boys, who were watching him and waiting for his answer with the rest of the room. The teen frowned at them, genuinely irritated for them helping him get into this mess. They shrugged, the gesture barely perceptible. Marty looked back up to Seamus. "You must have me confused with my brother, Clint," he said. "Not very surprising, to be honest -- we’re twins. Identical twins." Seamus’ face paled quite rapidly at hearing that. Marty started to get scared -- Can they tell I’m lying? -- when the Irishman gave him a good idea for the reason of his reaction. "I’m very sorry, ah, Mr. Eastwood, and I hate t’be the one to tell you... but your brother was killed t’day. There was an accident, an’ t’be honest no one ‘ere is quite sure of the details. The Marshall’s been out of town all day, investigatin’. I’ve heard that there were two witnesses to the accident, Emmett Brown, the blacksmith, and Clara Clayton, the schoolteacher. I’ve not seen ‘em all day, but you might want to speak with ‘em about it." Marty managed to keep a grave expression on his face. "I’ve heard about the accident already, thanks," he said. The silence started to dissolve in the room, once the townspeople were sure that they weren’t hallucinating or witnessing the resurrection of someone who had died. Marty turned back to the bar and the waiting bartender behind the counter. Before he could say anything to the older man, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Expecting it to be Jules or Verne, he turned around with a rather irritated expression set on his face. "What?" he asked, the word out before he had fully turned. He found himself staring at not Jules or Verne but Seamus McFly and was immediately embarrassed by his rather rude reaction. "I was sorry to hear of your brother’s death," Seamus said sincerely. "He was a fine lad an’ I felt a real kinship with ‘im. The town’s in shock with the news. Just this mornin’, he helped capture Buford Tannen, the local outlaw -- and usin’ his brains instead of his brawn." Marty nodded. "That’s what I’ve heard," he answered, wishing that his ancestor wasn’t quite so persistent in speaking with him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Seamus, but as he was one of the people in town that Marty’d had more contact with, he knew there was a great risk to possibly his entire paternal line, as well as himself, if he accidentally said something that might cause his great-great-grandfather to doubt his little lie about being Clint Eastwood’s brother. Seamus paused, his eyes examining Marty too critically for comfort. "Were you close with Clint?" That question would be an easy one to answer, at least. "Oh yeah, you could say we were close," Marty said honestly. Seamus sighed. "I’m very sorry for your loss," he said again. "I understand a bit what you must be feelin’. I lost me own brother a few years ago and I still find myself missin’ him, even with all his faults." He changed the subject, though Marty wasn’t so happy with the new topic, either. "How long will you be stayin’ in Hill Valley?" "Ah, not very long, actually." Marty looked at Jules and Verne. They were leaning on the bar a few feet away, talking softly with their heads close together. Every so often one of them would glance his way, then turn back quickly and return to the conversation. It made him slightly uneasy -- Are they planning something? -- but he ignored it. "Let me know if I can be of any help to you," Seamus offered. "I live fourteen miles away, but I try to make it to town sometimes once a week." "All right," Marty answered. "Thanks." With a nod and a small smile, Seamus finally let him be. Marty breathed a sigh of relief at his departure before turning back to the bar. The bartender -- the same one who had helped him with the "wake up juice" for Doc last time -- watched him rather curiously, but didn’t ask any questions, as he had already heard his explanation for the resemblance with everyone else in the room. "Listen, we were wondering if you served any food here," he asked. The bartender nodded. "We do, indeed. Would you like some?" "Yeah -- three meals, please," Marty said. He looked at the boys, still standing by the bar, as the bartender left to fulfill their order. "Do you guys want to find a place to sit down, maybe a table?" Verne shrugged as Jules answered. "All right. Do you think they have non-smoking here?" Marty managed to stifle a laugh at the question; the air was hazy from cigar and cigarette smoke. "Extremely doubtful," he said. "You’ll just have to avoid breathing as much as you can." Jules made a sour face. "I’d prefer to eat outside," he muttered as he started his search for a table with his brother. Marty hesitated for a minute, wondering if he’d need to collect the food or someone would bring it to them, then decided to compromise and sit with the boys but keep an eye on the bar. He caught up with them in a few steps and helped them select a table at the back of the room, away from the windows. He didn’t care to think what might happen if he sat in plain sight of half the town, especially if Doc or Clara happened by. "So what are we gonna do?" Verne asked as he sat down at the table. Marty joined him, but Jules remained standing for a minute, tentatively brushing what looked like peanut shells off the table and to the ground. "Hasn’t this place ever heard of busboys?" he muttered, sitting. Marty tried not to smile and failed. "You know this place better than I do, Jules. I’m surprised you’d think a place like this would bother to clear tables." "I don’t think I’ve been in here before," he said. "Father never drank and Mother never needed to come here. Her parents visited us a couple times when I was younger and they stayed in the hotel, but they would come over to our house." It was a reasonable explanation. As Marty kept a continuous watch at the people around the room, making sure that no one he knew was staring at him, Verne started up again about staying the night in town. "We should stay here," he said. "It’s a hotel an’ all, and we’ve got lots of money. We could even each get our own rooms!" He sounded excited at the prospect. "It would definitely be more prudent to stay the night in town, especially if you still wish to get that gift for Jennifer," Jules agreed, looking to Marty. "One night wouldn’t harm anyone or anything." Marty sighed, reluctantly entering the conversation. "And what would you do tonight? You guys have to understand -- it’s really dangerous for us to be here now, especially if we’re spotted by a lot of people... especially your parents." "Then why’d you come here?" Verne asked, not getting it. "Why bother?" "Because I didn’t know that we’d have to be here longer than a couple hours," Marty said immediately. "We should just leave. I could get Jen’s gift back in the future, I guess...." He didn’t really want to, since he knew that she’d really like that necklace better than any trinket he might pick up at the mall. "I don’t want to leave now," Verne said, that irritating pitch back in his voice. He folded his arms and sat back in his chair, the matter settled for him. "Verne’s right, Marty," Jules said. "If we were to stay the night here, we would just go to sleep. We’re all tired." Now it was Marty’s turn to look at the kids, critically. They did both look tired and worn out. He might’ve been used to both late hours and the havoc time travel would play on one’s system, but they were still kids. He looked at the clock in the bar, did some quick calculations, and figured it would be sometime after midnight to them all. Add that on top of a hike, and it wasn’t entirely impossible to think the boys might be telling the truth, for once. "We’ll see," he finally said, unwilling to commit to anything quite yet. Their food arrived soon after, looking rather unappetizing -- some kind of beef, biscuits, and beans. The boys immediately voiced complaints. "This stuff is gross," Verne said, poking at it with a fork. "I don’t think even Einstein would eat it!" "Who knows what kind of bacteria could be in here?" Jules added. Marty was trying not to think such things, knowing the only other option at this point would be eating nothing. "Look, guys, I know this isn’t a four star restaurant, but it’s the best we can do at this point," he said, trying to cut the tough meat. "You probably eat worst stuff at home. Just don’t think about it." By the twin expressions of disgust on the boys’ faces, it was clear that Marty’s words had no effect. "If you don’t eat this stuff, you’re not eating anything," he said when neither made a move towards the food. "That’s not a threat -- that’s a reality." He paused to take a bite of the meat that he’d managed to saw off. It was a little tough, but so long as he didn’t think about it too much.... "Why can’t there be a pizza place around here now?" Verne muttered as he poked at his food. * * * After the meal, Marty finally agreed to getting them a room in the Palace overnight. He was able to get two separate rooms, connected by a door, which would allow him to keep an eye on the boys and make sure they didn’t try sneaking out or anything. He nearly blew his cover when the bartender passed him a book to sign his name in and he started to write his real name. Quickly scribbling it out until it was an indecipherable smear, Marty tried not to panic as his mind whirled for a name. All he had to go on was "Something Eastwood." He couldn’t even use his real first name, though he was tempted to, and his middle name, Seamus, was also off limits for very obvious reasons. Had he come this far, only to ruin his cover by not having an alias prepared? Marty leaned over to Jules and Verne, thankful that the bartender was distracted. "What should I put?" he whispered, the pencil poised over the book. The boys shrugged. "It’s your decision," Jules said. "You’re the one who will have to answer to the name." Marty stared at the blank line. Names, he needed a name. He wracked his brain for a minute, coming up with nothing. He remembered the first time he had been here, how easy it had been to just blurt out a name, thinking about famous western stars like Clint Eastwood and Gary Cooper and John Wayne and-- Wait a minute! Marty rolled the last name around in his head. John Eastwood? Nah, didn’t sound right. John Wayne Eastwood? No, that was too much of a mouthful! J.W. Eastwood? Marty mouthed the name to himself. J.W. Eastwood. That would work, he supposed. It wasn’t as good as Clint Eastwood, but there was no way he could take that name again. He carefully signed his new pseudonym on the paper. "Does this look right?" he asked Jules and Verne, showing them his entry.
"‘J.W. Eastwood’?" Verne read aloud loud. He looked up at Marty. "I don’t get it." The bartender walked up and took the book from his hands before Marty could answer Verne. He, too, looked and the pencil-scrawled name. "J.W.?" he asked. "What’s that stand for?" "Um, John Wayne," Marty said, stepping away from the bar. "Thanks for the rooms." He grabbed Verne by the arm and Jules by the back of his shirt and pulled them toward the stairs at the back of the room. "What’s your hurry?" Verne protested, pulling his arm free and walking on his own. "Verne, do I have to go through that again?" Marty muttered, making sure neither boy was trying to hang back. "Why’d you pick John Wayne?" Verne asked as they were going up the stairs. "Who’s that?" Jules sighed and shook his head. "John Wayne was a famous actor in the 1950’s and ‘60’s who was in many westerns films. He’s a legend in our time from those many films he did." "Well, I’ve never heard of him," Verne muttered. Marty hurried up the stairs and looked at the keys in his hands -- one for each room, 204 and 206. He found both rooms at the far end of the hall. "This should be it," Marty said, glancing at keys to verify it. Yeah, the same numbers were engraved there. He passed one of the keys to Jules to try one door while he took the other. The lock clicked open without a problem. Marty pushed the door open and looked inside, finding a sparsely furnished but neat room. The furniture in it was simple -- a double bed, a dresser with a pitcher and washbasin on it, an armchair by the window, and a night stand with an oil lamp. The window was set in one wall, giving him a view of the main street below. The wall opposite that held a door, and it was opened a moment later by Verne in the adjoining room. "We got a bigger room than you," he announced. "Can we go explore?" "No," Marty said immediately. "We’re only staying here because you said you were tired -- not to let you look around this town. Don’t you get it, Verne?" he added, seeing the boy start to scowl. "If you were seen by either of your parents, you could create a ton of major problems." "We won’t go see them, Marty," Verne said as Jules slipped in behind him. "We just want to see the town an’ all. Even if they did see us, accidentally, they’d just think we were a couple of the kids in town." "That’s right," Jules said. "I don’t think they would think anything odd about us unless we were seen with you." "No way," Marty said, closing his door. "You guys wanted to stay the night here -- so, fine, we are. But we’re not going out. This wasn’t supposed to be a vacation." "Maybe not for you," Verne said. Marty put a stop to any further complaining by leveling one strong, cool gaze at the boy, just daring him to push the matter further. Verne decided to keep his mouth shut, heaving a sigh instead. "No fair," he muttered softly, turning to go back to his room. "You kids knew that this wasn’t going to be a long trip," Marty said, not wanting to be the bad guy in all this. "You said you didn’t care." "Well, then, feelings change," Jules said, his tone cool, as he shut the door between their rooms. Marty rolled his eyes as he sat down on the edge of his bed. "Right," he muttered. "Like that’s really going to make me crack." It was just the first time of many in the days to follow that he really wondered if coming back to this date was the best idea.
Verne Brown twitched impatiently as he sat on his bed and stared at the small clock hanging on the wall of the hotel room he shared with his brother. It had been close to an hour since they had left Marty and he wondered if their friend had gone to sleep yet. "Why do we even have to wait around?" Verne asked softly as Jules expelled his energy by walking slowly about the room, his pace far less frenetic than their father’s habit. "We can just walk out that door now -- not like we have to pass his room or anything to do that." "Perhaps, but Marty will likely look in on us before he retires," Jules said. "We want to make sure he’s not suspicious of us attempting an escape." "I say we just stuff the beds with pillows or something," Verne said, keeping his voice low. "He wouldn’t wake us up or anything -- at home he just poked his head in and that was it." "You don’t understand -- he knows that we want to get out of this building and look around. He would be much more cautious now than he was at home." Verne cocked his head to one side as he looked at his brother, skeptical. "I still think this is a waste of time," he muttered, not wanting to admit that he was not only tired of waiting, but just plain tired. Strange, since it wasn’t even nine yet, but he was. "Have patience, Verne," Jules chided. "If you don’t, you’ll miss a lot of things in life. The best things come to those who wait." "Whatever. We have time machines, so if we don’t like what happens, we can change it." The answer, Verne saw to his delight, momentarily baffled his brother. As Jules pondered a reply, Verne took advantage of the distraction and jumped off his bed, starting for the door. His older brother wasn’t distracted enough, though, seeing his intentions immediately. "Stop, Verne!" he said softly, irritated. "Do you want to ruin everything?" Verne turned, his hands on his hips. "If we wait any longer, Dad will probably’ve gone to bed." "Doubtful," Jules said, rather amused. "It’s still fairly early, and you and I both know that he’s somewhat of a night owl. He was likely even more so before marriage." "Even so," Verne muttered. "For all we know, Marty could’ve gone to bed." Jules drew his lips together to a thin line, scowled, then threw up his hands. "Fine, Verne, let’s go now. So what if we’re caught?" "Yeah, so what?" Verne said, unconcerned with the idea. "Marty doesn’t want Dad to know about this trip, so why would he tell him about it, and if we did something he didn’t want us to?" Jules thought this over for a moment, seeming to see the wisdom in the statement, for he nodded a moment later. "I suppose that’s a good point," he said. "But before we leave, we should attempt the classic and cliché technique of stuffing our beds with blankets and pillows to make it appear we are in them." Verne had no problem agreeing to that. Marty didn’t walk in on them doing the devious deed, and minutes later the boys were slipping out of their room, easing the door shut behind them, and hurrying down the stairs. They made their way quickly through the bustling saloon and out the doors. The streets were quieter now, less populated. Shadows were cast long and muted, the sun just below the horizon. "Father lived in his workplace before he and Mother were married," Jules said softly as they walked in the direction of the under construction courthouse in the center of the city. "I don’t think we should venture all the way out to the cabin, but the blacksmithing stable is definitely possible." "It should be, since I think we can see it from here," Verne said. The building that he thought was his father’s, based on his own memories of living in Nineteenth Century Hill Valley, appeared more run down than Verne recalled. He wondered if it had anything to do with the increasing darkness or if perhaps his father had put a lot of work into the building before Verne’s earliest memories of it, from when he was three or four. "Do we just walk up there?" he had to ask when they grew closer to the doors. Almost without thinking about it, the boys both slowed their strides, until they were nearly not moving at all. "How else would you suggest that we execute this?" Jules asked. "We certainly can’t call ahead. If we leave tomorrow, this is our only chance to see at least one parent from before...." Before, Verne thought, the word capitalized in his head. Before their mother and father became parents. Their lives prior to that were a mystery to both Verne and his brother. Although they had a time machine, neither had ever tried to go back in time and see them as kids -- their father’s tale about Marty’s accidental experience with his parents was one factor; another being that sneaking the time machine away without being caught was nearly impossible. They had only a small window of opportunity to see at least their father before he became such. Verne wanted to see if he would be as strict with them if he didn’t know that they were his future children, and Jules was interested to see if he sensed anything about them without knowing their real identities. It amazed him that both his brother and himself actually agreed on something for once. Now that the moment was at hand, however, Verne started to have doubts. "What if he knows, Jules?" he whispered as they hovered on the wooden sidewalk, the building where their future father resided only a hundred feet away. "What if he knows who we are, even if we don’t say?" "We’ll be careful," Jules insisted. "There shouldn’t be any pitfalls." Verne snorted softly, finding it a prime moment to vent an unrelenting frustration of his. "He might if you talk like that," he said. "Using all those big words an’ stuff. It makes you stick out." Jules bristled slightly. "I don’t mind that I am a unique and memorable individual," he said. "You’re the one who has issues about my intelligence." "But you know as well as I do that you’re not supposed to be either when we’re time traveling," Verne said, a touch smug. "It’s just advice, Jules. Even if you don’t drop your show off vocab, it might be a good idea to give it a rest tonight." Jules scowled but said nothing. Verne changed the subject. "What should we say?" His brother shrugged, still stinging from Verne’s remarks. "Improvise, I suppose. As long as we’re supremely careful to not tell him our real names -- middle names included." Verne figured that was reasonable. Their first names were unusual enough but their middle names were even odder -- especially Jules’. Strange as they were, it would surely be a tip-off to their father about their true identities if used, for he would’ve heard of them before and probably wouldn’t believe anyone would use those names for children... unless it was himself. "So what do we do? Make up names?" "It’s the most reasonable course to take," Jules said. "Just be conservative with your selection." "What’s that mean?" "It means you shouldn’t select a name from the future that you think is hip. Plain and classic is better. I think I’ll use John." Verne pondered this for a moment. "I don’t have to use one that starts with a V, do I?" Jules sighed. "Use whatever you want, Verne. Just make sure you react to it when it is said." The clocktower clock, still set out on the wagon, chimed loudly and suddenly nearby, informing them it was now nine. "If we’re doing this, the time is now," Jules said. * * * Doc Brown set down the lantern on the table and carefully replaced the glass chimney. As he adjusted the glow of the light, he couldn’t help noticing the table upon which the lamp rested, containing the remains of the elaborate model that he had constructed to illustrate to Marty how they were going to get the DeLorean back to the future. Clearly, the hard work had paid off. Doc had seen with his own eyes the time machine vanishing into the future. As the entire day had passed with no sign of Marty returning, he could only assume that the teen had followed through with Doc’s wishes of destroying the time machine. The matter did nag at him, however. He knew Marty pretty well, enough to know that he might be stubborn enough to ignore his instructions and take the time machine back to get him -- provided he managed to get it off the tracks before a train rolled by. A more pessimistic part of Doc’s mind whispered that maybe Marty hadn’t returned yet because he couldn’t; perhaps he had indeed gone through with the drag race and was so broken in spirit that time traveling would be the last thing on his mind. He hoped not. He’d be much happier here knowing that things had turned out all right for Marty. Things were going well for him now, even if he wasn’t going to be going home any time soon, if ever. Clara loved him! The very concept both baffled and filled him with the most wonderful sensation he had ever felt in his entire life! All the cliches about love -- which, even just a week ago, he would’ve chuckled or rolled his eyes over -- he found to be true. He smiled as he thought of her and the wide-eyed expression of amazement and surprise she wore on her face upon seeing the time machine vanish. The pain that he had felt just 24 hours ago when she had rejected him and the truth about his origins was all but forgotten. The day had been long and utterly exhausting, even more so when one had spent the previous night awake, but Doc felt too restless to go to bed yet. After the locomotive had crashed into the ravine, Doc had concocted a hasty story with Clara about what had happened to them all to tell the authorities when questioned. When they returned to town, they found the train’s engineer conversing with Marshall Strickland about the hijacked locomotive. Clara, who had been on that train earlier, explained how she was taken hostage by the men and how Clint Eastwood and Emmett Brown had come to her rescue... but that Clint was killed in the same accident that took the lives of the robbers. Naturally, the tale created a great deal of excitement. Doc found himself repeating the story better than a dozen times that day, first to the law officials, then to a reporter from the Hill Valley Telegraph, and finally to all of the curious townspeople who asked. He hoped the story would continue to hold up. So far, people appeared to believe both him and Clara, possibly because they had no reason to be lying about the matter. The smile on Doc’s face faded as his eyes drifted over the tabletop model. Marty was probably gone forever, hopefully to a better future than Doc had glimpsed for him in 2015. He knew the best thing to do would be to put it out of his mind, concentrate on the present and enjoy that. But Marty had been the closest thing he’d had to a son, and putting those years and that friendship behind him would be close to impossible. Not up to taking apart the model right now, Doc picked up one of the blankets and started to cover it up -- when he was stopped by a soft knock at the door. Who on earth could that be? he wondered, heading towards the door. It couldn’t be Clara; they had already said their goodbyes to each other for the evening. It wasn’t terribly late quite yet. Perhaps the Marshall had another question for him about the accident, or someone had a blacksmithing emergency. The knock came again before he reached the door, less tentative and strange in that it seemed... well, closer to the ground than Doc would’ve expected. "Just a minute," he said, even as he unlatched the door and pushed it open. He didn’t see anyone at first, then looked down and found two boys staring up at him, one with rather mussed, wavy blond hair, the other with neatly combed brown hair. They looked to be between the ages of eight and ten. The darker one appeared older than the blond, perhaps by a year or so, and he wondered if they were related. He stared back at them, confused for a moment. They look familiar, Doc realized. I swear I’ve seen them before.... The only explanation he could think of was that perhaps they were children of one of the townsfolk, kids he had seen around town frequently but didn’t know. A funny feeling crawled up the back of his neck, almost a chill, as he looked at their faces. Why do I feel like I should know them? "Hi," the blond boy piped up. "Are you the blacksmith?" It took Doc a moment to answer, his mind repeating the voice and searching for the reasons on the familiarity. He came up blank. "I am indeed," he said. "Is there something I could help you with?" The second boy spoke. "Our, ah, ah, pa sent us over for some nails ‘n stuff," he said. The blond turned his head hard to look at the darker-haired lad, making a sound that seemed to be a muffled cough or laugh. Doc cocked his head to one side as he eyed the kids again. "I see," he said. "How many did you need?" "Three," the blond said, just as the older one said, "Six." Doc raised an eyebrow, rather amused. "How many?" he asked. "Three or six?" The kids looked at each other. The older boy spoke for them this time. "Somewhere between there," he said. "I don’t rightly remember what Pa said now." "All right," Doc said. "I’ll give you six, that way if you don’t need all of them you can have some spare ones." "Sure," the blond said. Without waiting for an invitation, he followed the scientist blacksmith into the building. Doc noticed and said nothing, though he kept one eye on them as he fetched six nails for the boys. The older boy followed the first into the room after a moment’s hesitation and they looked around the dimly lit barn. The darker-haired lad noticed the partially concealed table top model and was drawn there first. "This is rather impressive," he said, his vocabulary shifting so dramatically that Doc couldn’t help but stare. "This is a model of the town, isn’t it?" Doc hurried over with the nails, not wanting either child to see the vehicle marked "time machine" that sat in plain sight. "Yes, but it’s not to scale. It was part of an... experiment of mine." "It’s neat," the blond said, his choice of words almost getting by Doc -- until he realized that the slang the child was using was far from common right now. "Did you do it for your kids?" Doc tried not to laugh as he deftly pulled the blanket over the rest of the model. "Hardly," he said. "Who are your parents?" The boys exchanged a quick glance. "They’re new in town, just got some land ‘n’ all," the older boy said, his vocabulary regressing again. "That’s why we need the nails, ‘cause we’re buildin’ our house -- uh, cabin." Doc blinked. "At this hour of the day?" he asked. "Well, it’s a good as time as any," the blond said with a shrug. The scientist stared hard at the child, finding this entire situation odder by the second. "What are your names?" he asked suddenly. "John," the dark-haired boy said. "And this is my brother...." "Mario," the blond said, almost smugly. Doc raised another eyebrow at the name, one that wasn’t so common out here without Italian roots. Perhaps it was a family name. "I see. What are your last names?" "Newton," John said quickly. "How much is it for the nails?" "A penny apiece." Mario’s eyes suddenly widened. "Money?" he squeaked. "Ju-ohn, we left that in the room!" His voice twisted around his brother’s name, curiously, snagging Doc’s attention. John sighed, casting an irritated look at his sibling. "Nice going," he muttered. "We’ll have to get them another time." "Oh, well," Mario said, not seeming too upset. Doc felt a little bad about sending them away emptyhanded. "Why don’t you take them now and your parents can pay me the next time they pass through town?" he suggested. He didn’t recognize their surname offhand as belonging to anyone in town, but if they were new, that wouldn’t be surprising. Yet if they were new in town, why did they look so naggingly familiar to him? "Really?" John asked. "That would be really nice of you, Mr. Blacksmith." "The name’s Brown -- Emmett Brown," he said quickly. "You’d best be on your way now, before it gets any darker. I don’t think your family would want you outside so late." "Very true, I’m sure," John said. "You would make a good father someday. Come on... Mario." "We’ll come back with your money," Mario promised as he followed his sibling out of the building. Doc didn’t move for a minute after their departure, listening to their footsteps fade. His brow furrowed as his mind struggled to snare a reason why those kids seemed so familiar to them. What was it about them? Certainly he never recalled meeting them. They were a unique pair, between the names and the older one’s habit of switching between speaking patterns. Perhaps once he met their parents, he would have more of an answer. Maybe these kids are related to me in some way, he thought, the idea coming to him nearly out of the blue. It could be possible, except he was certain there had never been a Newton in the family. His mother’s maiden name had been Lathrop and his father’s family was still Von Braun. It could’ve been his imagination, too. He’d had a long day and it wasn’t entirely out of the question that he’d been seeing or feeling something that just wasn’t there. Doc sighed, letting the matter fall away for now. There would be time to think of it later, perhaps, and maybe meeting the boys’ parents would allow him to see a connection between them and his feelings. In the meantime, if he was feeling so awake, maybe he should start dismantling the model before the wrong eyes saw it. * * * "That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, Jules!" Verne said as they entered the Palace saloon again, well out of earshot of the blacksmithing stable. "Where’d you learn to speak like that? Watching The Beverly Hillbillies?" "Shut up, Verne," Jules said, clearly irritated. "I was trying to make certain that our future father wouldn’t be able to get an inkling of our true identity. And you’re not the only one who has some explaining to do. What on earth possessed your puny brain to come up with the pseudonym of Mario?" "It’s like the video game," Verne explained. "You know, Super Mario Brothers? It’s one of my favorite games and you said to pick something old fashioned. That name is." "It’s also very ethnic," Jules said. "Neither of us look Italian." Verne shrugged as they went up the steps to the second floor of the building, where their rooms were. "You could’ve picked a better last name than Newton. Don’t you think that’ll make Dad suspicious? That’s my middle name and the name of some scientist." "Newton is common surname," Jules said. "Similar to Brown -- and you know that was one name we didn’t dare use." "But if you picked something better and Italian, then my name wouldn’t be so out of place," Verne said. "Like Boyardee." Jules rolled his eyes. "Verne, remember that our father spent almost all his life in the Twentieth Century. Choosing a common brand name for our last name would be asking for trouble." Verne shrugged again. He was about to suggest something else when Jules put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, and turned the doorknob to their room. It didn’t budge. Jules tried to turn it the opposite way, with the same result. His face suddenly grew rather pale in the dim lighting. "I don’t suppose you have the key to the room?" he asked his brother. "No, I thought you had it," Verne said, understanding at once. "We’re locked out?" Jules nodded. "Maybe Marty left his door unlocked," he said, stepping towards the closed door a few feet away. "Can’t we just sneak in through a window?" Verne asked. Jules turned to him, giving him a withering look. "On the second floor?" Verne sighed, giving up. Maybe they’d be lucky and the door would both be unlocked and Marty asleep -- or, better yet, maybe Marty wouldn’t even be in there. Maybe he went out for a walk or something. It was possible. Not likely, perhaps, but possible. "I hope we don’t get into trouble," he muttered. "If there are questions, allow me to answer them," Jules said, giving the second knob a try. This one turned freely and he pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked, causing both boys to wince. Marty’s room was lit by one oil lamp near his bed, and Verne saw him lying on the bed. "Looks like he’s asleep," Verne said, barely whispering. Even so, Jules cast him a dirty look and made a slashing motion with his hand, perhaps for his silence. He stepped inside, moving slowly and quietly in wide steps. Verne nearly snickered at the sight, until he realized his brother wasn’t making any noise as he moved. He followed suit, letting go of the door and tracing his brother’s steps. When a bang came from behind, a minute later, Verne jumped and nearly tripped over his own feet. Jules whirled around, startled, and Marty stirred on the bed, lifting his head up and squinting in the dim light, searching for the source of the disturbance. "What are you guys doing?" he asked, sounding dazed. "We went out to use the facilities and locked ourselves out of our room," Jules said without hesitation. Marty looked at him a moment, the expression on his face one of sleepy thought, then seemed to accept the explanation. "Okay. Just try not to forget your keys next time." He waited until the boys had opened their own door, then leaned over and extinguished the lamp before settling back on the bed. Verne let out a deep breath when they were in their own room again, the door closed. "Nice excuse," he murmured to his brother. Jules smiled a little. "I thought it was," he said. "And it actually worked in our favor that Marty was as groggy as he was. It made him less inclined to interrogate us, and perhaps he won’t even remember this incident tomorrow morning." "That would be nice," Verne said. He sighed as he sat on his bed. "Too bad we’re leaving tomorrow. It would’ve been nice to see Mom now, too." Jules shrugged. "We were fortunate enough to have this chance. Maybe it’s best to not press our luck."
When Marty woke the next day, it was to the sounds of both Jules and Verne chattering noisily in his room -- to him. "Come on, Marty -- that store is open now," Verne said. "And if you wanna get what you want and go, we should do it now." Marty grunted at this, burying his face in the pillow in an effort to escape the voices. "You were the one who wanted to leave today as soon as possible," Jules said. "If you would prefer to sleep in a little longer, Verne and I wouldn’t mind entertaining ourselves." That got his attention. Marty raised his head and looked at them for the first time, narrowing his eyes against the early morning sunlight slanting into the room. The kids were both dressed and clearly ready to get going. "What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "About a quarter after eight," Jules said. "Come on, Marty, get up," Verne said. "We need to eat breakfast an’ maybe it’ll be better than dinner last night." Marty sighed. "I’m up, aren’t I?" he asked, sitting up as he spoke. "Yeah, but you’re moving too slow," Verne said. "Can’t we meet you downstairs or something’?" "No way. Just hold your horses and give me five minutes. Why don’t you guys look around in your room and make sure you’re not leaving anything behind?" "We didn’t bring anything to leave behind," Jules said. Not knowing what to say to that, Marty didn’t even try. He slipped off the bed, tried to smooth out his wrinkled clothes as much as he could, ran his fingers through his sleep mussed hair, and put on his hat, pulling the brim down low over his face, in an attempt to be inconspicuous. He hoped the saloon downstairs wouldn’t be terribly populated so early and his wish was granted. The bar was nearly deserted. Marty turned in the keys and ushered the boys outside as soon as possible, promising them some kind of breakfast from the general store. The streets outside were loosely populated at this early morning hour. Before entering the general store, he had Jules check one of the windows first to make sure neither Doc or Clara were inside before he entered. He dared not think about what might happen if they were. Luck continued to be with them; except for the man at the counter, the store was empty. Marty had the kids enter a minute before he did, in order to distance himself from the boys. The teen headed straight for the glass case, where he had seen the necklace just a few days -- and a few months -- before. It took him almost a minute of eyeing the contents under glass before he realized that what he wanted wasn’t there. "Um, excuse me," he said, catching the shopkeeper’s attention as the man sorted through what appeared to be paperwork. When he looked up, Marty continued. "I saw a necklace here last week, a silver locket with turquoise, for two dollars. I was hoping to buy it." "I’m sorry," the shopkeeper said, sounding apologetic, "but I sold that already. This mornin’, in fact." "It’s been sold?" Marty repeated, stunned by this development. "Do you have any more of them?" The man shook his head. "No, but we should be gettin’ some in next week, perhaps." "Next week?" "Yep. Should be coming about Wednesday, the sixteenth, I believe." Marty groaned inwardly at this news and forced a strained, polite smile on his face. "Thanks," he said, heading over to where Jules and Verne were killing time, at the barrels of penny candy. "They don’t have any food here to eat but the candy," Verne said by way of greeting. "I think we should just get some for breakfast." "Fine," Marty said, having other things on his mind. He handed the boys a couple bucks each from the roll of money and watched them pick out handfuls of candy, pay for it, and stuff the majority of it in their pockets as they each munched on peppermint sticks. Marty killed the time as he waited by scanning the surrounding shelves in a halfhearted search for something else he might give Jennifer. Nothing caught his eye. He was silent as he left the general store, trying to figure out what to do next and all but oblivious to his surroundings. What do I do now? he wondered, standing on the raised wooden sidewalk and staring up at the sky. Jen would really really like that necklace. I suppose we could take the time machine and come back in another week, or I could just go home and get something else.... So lost he was in his thoughts that he had forgotten his goal of trying to be seen by as little people as possible. Marty suddenly realized that several of the townspeople were staring at him as they went down the street, stunned and odd expressions on their faces. Marty turned away from the street to speak to the boys -- and found they weren’t there. He looked around, quickly, trying not to panic, and saw they had wandered over to look at the future clocktower clock, still on a wagon. He started towards them, intending to take them both somewhere more private to talk about the situation. He didn’t want to explain how he was supposed to be "Clint Eastwood’s" brother the whole day and figured that there were enough people in the saloon last night who’d heard that and could spread the word. Not ten feet from the boys, their names on his lips, Marty was stopped by a well-dressed man. He looked vaguely familiar, but Marty couldn’t figure out why that was until he spoke -- and then he realized it was the same guy who had recruited him for the Colt gun demonstration at the town festival, three days before. "Pardon me," he said, stepping before Marty and successfully blocking his path. "I’ve heard that you’re Clint Eastwood’s twin brother. Is that true?" Marty sighed and gave a reluctant nod. "Yeah, I’m his identical twin, J.W. Eastwood." The gun salesman stared at him hard, his eyes running over him from head to toe. He let out a low whistle "I should say! Indeed, you’re the spittin’ image of ‘im!" The man pulled a pad of paper out of his pocket with one hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Elmer Johnson, from the Colt Manufacturing Company, and I have a business proposition for you. I was planning to ask your brother, but then I heard of his death in the train accident. I’m sure that you can do it just as well, especially since you look so damned like him." Marty tilted his head to one side, curious. "What is it?" "Well, word has spread how your brother defeated Buford Tannen with help from the Colt Peacemaker--" "Wait a minute," Marty interrupted immediately. "He didn’t do that! He never even used the gun!" Johnson raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? I didn’t know you were there yesterday." "Uh, I wasn’t," Marty admitted, inwardly lecturing himself to watch what he said to whom. "I heard it... from a friend." Johnson leaned forward, as if to share a secret. "The story that everyone is hearin’," he drawled softly, "is that Buford Tannen surrendered before he was killed by the fancy shootin’ your brother done do!" Marty choked back a laugh at this rumor, barely. "That’s ridiculous!" Johnson shrugged. "It’s not my place to correct what everyone believes," he said. "Anyway, the Colt Company is prepared to give you an offer you can’t possibly refuse." Marty smiled, edging his way past the salesman. "Yeah, I can, sir. I’m leaving town today." Johnson hurriedly shifted position, blocking Marty’s way again. "I’m afraid you’re not understandin’ me, Mr. Eastwood. Colt is prepared to offer you a good sum of money. Alls you have to do is pose in some photographs with some of our products." "Thanks for the offer, but--" "All you have to do is be photographed for a few hours, Mr. Eastwood," Johnson repeated. "The company is prepared to offer you round trip train tickets to Sacramento for the photography, as well as a fair sum of money." "You don’t understand -- I can’t do this," Marty insisted, more truth to those words than the gun salesman could possibly realize. Johnson smiled tightly. "Mr. Eastwood, I don’t think you understand the offer I’m giving you. We are prepared to offer you a twenty-five dollar sum for the photographs, plus pay for your travel expenses. It’s a very generous deal." Marty sighed. not enjoying this at all. It did sound like a rather fair offer, and it would definitely be interesting to get out of Hill Valley and see what a larger city looked like during this time period, but he had already delayed their departure by a day. And in doing that, I’ve already spent some of that money, he thought, recalling the currency that Jules and Verne had "borrowed." It was, technically, Doc’s money he had, even if his children were the ones who had taken it. There was no way, back in 1986, he could earn money in 1885 currency to pay Doc back, regardless if he noticed any money missing or not. And what if Doc didn’t count it before a trip back here, assumed he had enough, and found himself stranded or something due to a lack of five bucks? Maybe, Marty considered, I should do it, just so I can pay Doc back all the money I’ll be using here.... "All right," he finally agreed. "But I have to take two friends with me, or I won’t do it. It’s my responsibility to look after them." Johnson nodded hastily. "Of course," he said, pulling three tickets out of his coat pocket and handing them to Marty. "These are for a first class berth. Now, your train for Sacramento leaves Hill Valley at eight tomorrow morning and the train for Hill Valley will pull out from Sacramento at nine that evening. We will have someone meet you at the train station and bring you directly to our office for the photography. It should most of the day." He paused. "I hope that your friends will have something to do." Marty slipped the tickets in his pocket, glancing at the boys, still by the clock. "I’ll think of something." Johnson reached into another pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope, passing it to Marty. "This has our agreement in writing. Be sure to sign it and bring it with you tomorrow to Sacramento." "When will I get paid?" he asked, slipping the tickets into the envelope with the other papers. "After the photographs are taken tomorrow, of course." Johnson smiled, the expression one of insincerity from years of misuse, and tipped his hat to the teen. "T’was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Eastwood." The salesman turned and walked away. Marty looked at the envelope in his hand, and at the kids by the clock. What the hell did I just get myself into? he wondered. * * * Jules hurriedly concluded his conversation with his brother when he noticed Marty heading their way. The older boy noticed at once a rather peculiar expression on the teen’s face, nearly hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. "You don’t think he found out about us going out last night, do you?" Verne murmured to his sibling, perhaps catching the expression on his face as well. "I don’t think so," Jules muttered back. "He doesn’t appear angry, as I’m sure would be the case if he did know." Their speculation was answered shortly when Marty reached them. "Hey, guys, do you think we could go somewhere a little more private to talk?" he asked. The boys glanced at each other for a moment. "Sure," Verne said for the both of them. Marty led them to one of the alleyways nearby, checked to make sure there was no one around, then finally started to talk. "Did you guys see that man who stopped me?" Jules faintly recalled the person, who had delayed Marty enough to allow him and Verne some time to further plot out reasons to stay longer in this time. "I believe so," he said. "Why?" "He’s a businessman with the Colt Company. They made guns and -- right, you guys probably know that already," he added, perhaps recalling where they had grown up. "Anyway, he loaned me one of their guns when I was here last time for the showdown with Tannen and now the rumor mill has it that I defeated him with it. Which I didn’t. At any rate, tomorrow we’re going to Sacramento so I can earn some money by posing for some photographs for the company." Marty paused, breathless. "Do you mind if we stay an extra day?" "Not at all," Jules said. "And you can trust us both to keep the secret from Father. He might have some issues with it." "Probably. But I’m doing it to pay back the money we’re using right now. I think that might be a good idea." It was, Jules realized. A very good one. "I agree," he said. "If we’re going to be out of town today, can Verne and I go off and explore?" "Do I look like I’m crazy?" Marty asked. "No! Do you know how dangerous that is? Wait a minute -- you should by now. Jeez, you guys, why are you even asking me?" "Well, what are we supposed to do?" Verne asked. "It’s not even ten yet! We can’t spend the whole day inside. We’re kids!" "Then we’ll do something else -- out of town," Marty said. "The more we’re seen, the more likely this news would be in getting back to your parents." "Only with you being seen," Verne countered. "We’re just kids an’ if people see us, it won’t matter." Marty frowned. "I don’t want to split up," he said. "Why not?" Jules asked. "We’re not babies. We know this time better than you do, it’s safer now than in the future, and we can be back before dark if that’s your concern." "No," Marty said. "We’re not splitting up." "Fine," Jules said, realizing that it was time for both him and his sibling to pull out all the stops. "I must warn you, however, that if you don’t let us go willingly, you will wish you did. It’s two against one." "So?" Marty asked, doubt flickering across his face for a split second. "So, you’re outnumbered," Verne said. "You can’t tell Dad if we run off, ‘cause you’d get in trouble, too. We got no reason to follow your orders." "Fine," Marty said, crossing his arms. "I guess you’re right. Go ahead, do what you want." Jules blinked at this surprising turn. "I’m glad you can see things in a logical manner," he said. Marty nodded. "Sure. Just don’t come crying to me if you erase yourselves from existence or cause the universe to end." "You exaggerate," Jules said. "Verne and I are not stupid. We won’t do anything to endanger our lives, or the lives of others." Marty rolled his eyes. "You two have a lot to learn," he said, rather harshly. "If you decide to be smart, I’ll be in the Palace laying low." Jules watched as he left the alley. He looked at his brother when Marty had moved out of sight and couldn’t resist a smile. "So, where shall we go first? Mother’s residence or Father’s?" They began the day by visiting their father, the blacksmith. Their future father didn’t seem terribly surprised by their appearance, and only when they were there did Jules recall their promise to bring him the money for the nails they really didn’t need. Luckily, he still had change in his pocket left over from their candy purchases and was able to pay off their debt. Jules was hoping to spend a great deal of the day hanging around there, but when Emmett asked them why they weren’t in school, he realized it was a perfect opportunity to see their mother. Jules agreed immensely to the suggestion, promised the blacksmith that they would do just that, then dragged Verne out of there while he was still in shocked silence. "Are we really going to school?" he asked when they were enough of a distance from the blacksmithing barn that they couldn’t be overheard. "Definitely," Jules said. "What better way to get to know Mother? Remember, she taught school here before I was born. It’s perfect -- we can enter there as typical students and watch how she reacts to us." The hike to the schoolhouse was about a mile from town. Jules had no memories of being there before, but he knew that he had lived in the schoolteacher’s cabin by the schoolhouse until just after his brother was born and they moved to the house they still resided in in the future. It wasn’t too surprising, considering he hadn't been even two years old when they moved, but Jules was a tad disappointed when the hike didn’t awaken long-ago memories. They had gone to the schoolhouse for their education until they moved, of course, but by that point the path to the building was lined with a handful of houses as Hill Valley grew. He couldn’t remember it being so empty before. "What are we gonna tell Mom now?" Verne asked when they could see the schoolhouse up ahead, in the distance. "The same story we told Father, of course," Jules said. "No sense in confusing them. Just remember to react to your name here, Verne. I noticed that Father had to call you at least twice earlier." "Oh, big deal," Verne said. "I think your weird hillbilly accent made him more suspicious. So, what, are we new students here?" "Sure," Jules said. "That story should work." When they reached the school house, however, they found it silent and empty. Jules was confused, until he noticed a paper nailed to the door announcing that the school would open the following Monday. As they stood before the door, taking this news in, Jules noticed the building was different from his memories of it. By the time he attended it, when he was a very advanced four-year-old in 1891, the building had doubled in size thanks to the addition of another room on the side. But now, six years before then, it was a classic red brick one room schoolhouse. "So what do we do now?" Verne asked. Jules shrugged, sitting down on the steps of the schoolhouse. "I suppose we could return to town. Or else...." He paused, looking over at the cabin a couple hundred feet from the schoolhouse. "We could drop by Mother’s current residence for a visit." Verne looked at him, tilting his head to the side. "What would we say?" "That’s not difficult. That we are going to be students of hers and are curious to meet her before classes begin." Verne wrinkled his nose. "Sounds geeky," he said. "She might get suspicious." "Why? To her, we’re just two kids from town. Remember, Mother was new to Hill Valley right now. She has no reason to question our presence here." Jules stood and walked towards the cabin, his brother following at a less enthused pace. He knocked on the door without hesitation, heard the faint sound of movement inside, and a moment later the door was opened. Miss Clara Clayton, as she was known at the time, stood in the doorway. Jules’ first thought was that she looked a little younger, which was only natural when seeing someone more than a decade younger. She seemed to have more energy, too, visibly just by the way she stood. He supposed being married and having two kids would tire anyone to some degree. "Can I help you?" she asked politely when neither boy said a word. Jules took a breath and spoke quickly what he had rehearsed earlier in his head, reminding himself to speak simply. "Um, well, my brother and I are new in town and our ma and pa sent us to the schoolhouse to go to class, but it hasn’t started yet, so we thought we’d at least meet the teacher that’s going to teach us." He paused. "Are you her?" Their future mother nodded. "I am. My name is Miss Clayton. I’m new in town as well." She paused for a moment. "Would you liked to come in?" "Sure," Jules said. As they stepped through the door, very faint memories whispered to him from long ago. They had left the cabin when he wasn’t quite two years old, but he seemed to remember the fireplace and the general dimensions of the room. Strangely enough, the room seemed larger than his memories, perhaps due to less clutter gathered in the main room of the three-room cabin. The furnishings now, which had come with the building, were sparse and it was clear that their future mother had been living here less than a week. "Where is it you’re from?" Verne asked innocently as he sat down on the couch. "New Jersey," Clara said as she shut the door. "Do you know where that is?" "Of course," Jules said. "Where is it you are both from?" "San Francisco," Verne said, even as Jules frowned. They hadn’t discussed that portion of their cover story. Clara smiled as she took a seat in the armchair. "Really! I’ve never been there before. Why did your family move to Hill Valley?" "They wanted to farm," Jules said, rather lamely. "We heard that you are well acquainted with the blacksmith." Clara’s eyebrows arched sharply. Whether it was from Jules’ unconscious slip into speaking more as he was used to or from his comment, he wasn’t sure. "Really?" she said. "I suppose that is true. Doct -- ah, Mr. Brown was the first person I met when I arrived in town." She smiled, the expression causing her to look younger than her years. "He’s a dear man." Verne’s mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to laugh. Jules quickly planted an elbow in his ribs to keep him quiet. "We met him yesterday," Jules said. "Our pa sent us to get nails from him." "I see. What are your names?" "I’m Mario and my brother is John," Verne said. "Our last name is Newton." Clara’s mouth quirked for a second, as if she was trying not to smile. "Interesting. Well, I will be looking forward to having you both in my class this year." Jules sensed she was ready to conclude their brief meeting. "We’d better go now," he said. "Our ma and pa worry if we’re late, and we promised them to be back at one." By the clock in the room, he could see that it was a half hour ‘til. Clara stood. "It was wonderful of you both to visit me," she said. "I’ve met only a few of your classmates so far, and none have come over here without their families. Your parents must trust you very much." "I wish they would more," Verne said. "I’ll bet you’d be a good mother and let your kids have lots of freedom." Their future mother’s lips twitched again, as if she was concealing a smile. "Oh, perhaps you might wish to save that judgment until later," she said. "Rules are made for reasons." Verne made a face but said nothing. Jules hurried to the door and pulled his brother with him. "It was nice meeting you, Miss Clayton," he said. "We’ll see you soon." He paused, unable to resist adding the line. "In the future." The meaning went right by Clara. "I’ll see you on Monday," she said, shutting the door behind them. "So, what did you think of Mom?" Verne asked when they were out of sight of the cabin. "She seems more or less the same," Jules admitted, disappointed. "Our parents really did live dull lives before they married, for the most part. Marty has more exciting stories." "Yeah, but he saw them as teenagers, not older," Verne pointed out. "I bet if we saw Mom and Dad then, it might be more interesting." He was silent for a moment. "It’d be neat if we could see them when they were our age." "Odd," Jules said, considering that notion. To see their father around their age -- taking, say, the age of nine as a compromise -- would mean a trip to 1929. Yet to see their mother as a nine-year-old, they’d have to go back to 1864. It was rather confusing. "Do you think Marty is really mad at us?" Verne asked. "He’s probably irritated. But this was likely our last chance to see our parents before leaving," Jules said. "A pity we can’t have more time here to investigate them, but maybe it is just as well. It’s better we don’t accidentally give then the notion that we may be their offspring from the future." Despite Jules coming across as unconcerned about Marty’s feeling towards them, he couldn’t help feeling nervous when they reached the Palace hotel, a quarter after one. Verne sighed as they went up the stairs to the hotel portion of the building. "I’m already bored," he said. "Why don’t we do something else before we check in with Marty? You know he probably won’t let us go out once we’re back." "What would we do, then?" Jules asked, pausing on the landing. "I don’t know -- why don’t we go explorin’ and ride some horses? It’s too early to spend the rest of the day in the room." His brother brought up a very good point, Jules had to admit. He agreed to the plan and the boys returned outside. It didn’t take them long to find a place to rent a horse for the day, and by pooling their money together they had enough to rent two of them, plus to buy some lunch. They rode out to the ravine, which they’d heard so much about in their family history. Neither had seen it prior to the completion of the railroad bridge. After tethering their horses, the boys took their lunch and sat on the railroad ties that dangled over the stunning drop to the ravine below. Their perch would’ve given their parents’ heart a turn, but neither boy was afraid of heights. Jules found it rather exhilarating to see birds dive through the air under them. What both he and Verne found the most interesting were the remains of the wrecked locomotive that had sent Marty back to the future the day before -- or several months prior, depending on the perspective. The former vehicle was nothing more than blackened metal, twisted and distorted beyond recognition. "It’d be neat to hike down there and check it out," Verne commented as he eyed the remains. "And foolish, too," Jules said, not without practicality. "How would we return to the top?" Verne shrugged. "If we got the DeLorean, we could fly down there and out," he said. "I’m sure Marty will definitely agree to such a thing after our absence today. Forget it, Verne. It’s probably not going to happen." Jules checked his watch, shocked to see it was after three already. "We’d better get back. Marty might want to tar and feather us if we’re out much longer." By the time they returned to town, returned their horses, and arrived back at the Palace hotel, it was nearly five. Jules dragged his feet as they returned to what had been their room the night before. To his surprise, the door was locked. Not even trying to knock, he tried Marty’s and found it locked as well. "Now what?" Verne asked. Jules shrugged, sighed, and tried knocking on the door, softly. He wondered if perhaps Marty had gotten a different room for tonight, as they had checked out of the other ones. If that was the case, he could be trying to get into an empty room or -- worse yet -- one occupied by a strange party. When his first knock wasn’t answered, Jules tried again. He heard footsteps from the other side, approaching slowly, and a moment later the door was cracked open a quarter of an inch. Before Jules could figure out who had opened the door, it opened wide enough for him to see that it was Marty. "Hi," Verne said. "Can we come in?" Marty blinked. He looked rather dazed. "Sure," he said softly. As the boys shuffled inside, Jules noticed the covers on the made bed were slightly mussed. He looked at Marty again and put two and two together. "Were you sleeping?" he asked. Marty closed the door and frowned. "I think so. I was just lying down for a while. I had this headache.... What time is it?" "About five in the evening." The teen’s frown deepened as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward and sighed, resting his forehead in his hands. "Are you really mad at us?" Verne asked. "Hmmm?" Marty lifted his head up. "Oh, I’m not happy with the way you guys ran off like that. You could’ve created a hell of a lot of problems." He frowned again. "Maybe that’s why I’ve got this headache that just won’t quit. Too much stress over this trip." "Well, we’ll be out of Hill Valley tomorrow," Jules pointed out. "That shouldn’t cause that much damage. And then we can return to the time machine and go pick up your necklace if you’re still wanting to do that." "That’s the plan," Marty said. "Let’s just hope nothing else unexpected happens."
Doc Brown first heard of Clint Eastwood’s "twin" while shoeing a horse for Kathleen Phillips, the young wife of a reporter on the Hill Valley Telegraph. Not surprisingly, Mrs. Phillips was known to have one of the busiest mouths in Hill Valley from the news she picked up both from her husband and from her friends in the gossip circle. She was a nice woman, but a little too enthusiastic in spreading the news she heard, even if it would later proved to be false. "I must say," she chatted while Doc attended to her animal, "this has been quite a week in Hill Valley! I don’t believe I’ve seen such excitement before! First there was the showdown with Buford Tannen, then that terrible kidnapping and train accident. Did you know that on the same day Clint Eastwood died, his identical twin brother showed up?" The woman chuckled once. "You should have seen the looks on everyone’s face when that young man came into town. It was as if they were all seeing a ghost!" Doc had listened to her mouth run on with half an ear. But at the mention of "Clint Eastwood," his ears pricked up, and at the mention of a brother in town, the blacksmith almost hammered his hand instead of the shoe! "What?" he asked, wondering if he had heard correctly. Mrs. Phillips gave him a puzzled look with the outburst. "Didn’t you hear? My, I thought you had, seein’ that you were friends with the lad. Clint Eastwood’s twin brother is in town. My Charles was in the saloon when he arrived and said that--" Doc dropped his tools to the ground and stared at the young woman. "Clint Eastwood has a twin brother in town?" he repeated. "Are you sure?" "Why, certainly," Mrs. Phillips said. "I’ve seen him myself. The spitting image of Clint, he is." Doc took a breath at the news. He doubted that Mrs. Phillips was lying, and even more that she had gotten her facts mixed up. Seamus McFly was the only one in town who bore any sort of resemblance to Marty, and the young woman could surely tell the difference between them. Doc shook his head as his thoughts ran around in a dizzying circle. Marty must be back in town! he realized. It’s the only explanation! He looked at Mrs. Phillips. "Do you know where this brother is right now?" he asked her, keeping his voice free of any of the excitement he now felt. The blond woman nodded. "Charles saw him check into the Palace Hotel on Monday night," she reported. Doc gave her a curt nod at the information and headed for the doors. "Mr. Brown, where are you going? What about my horse?" "I’ll get to him today, Mrs. Phillips. Could you return in a couple hours? I have to run a very quick errand right now." Doc felt the woman’s puzzled stare on his back as he left, but he hardly cared, even if he was certain his reaction would be public fodder by the end of the day. He needed to know if it was true, if Marty was indeed back in 1885 Hill Valley. And that was only the start of the questions. If he is in town and has been since Monday evening, why hasn’t he contacted me yet? It took him only a couple minutes to reach the Palace Saloon and Hotel. The main room was nearly empty at this hour of the day, save for the card playing regulars scattered about. Chester, the bartender, looked up as he entered. "Emmett, what brings you here at this early hour?" he asked as Doc crossed the floor to the bar. "I heard Clint Eastwood’s brother was staying here," Doc said. His voice sounded a lot steadier than he felt. "Is that correct?" Chester nodded. "Yes, that’s true. He checked in Monday night, with two young boys in tow, checked out again on Tuesday mornin’, then took the same rooms for the next couple days. Said something about a delay in his plans." Doc blinked. "He didn’t come here alone?" he asked, surprised. Chester shook his head. "Nope. There were two boys with him. One had blond hair, the other had brown. Looked about eight, nine or ten. Curious children, if you want my opinion." The scientist’s mind whirled with this information. Two boys? Doc didn’t know anyone from back home who would fit that description. Was it possible that the Marty here now was not the teen he knew but an older version? Old enough to bring his son and perhaps a friend along? Doc did some quick calculations and realized his friend would have to be forty if his son was ten, if things hadn’t changed from the way he had observed them in 2015. Highly doubtful that Marty could pull of an identical twin story, then; he would’ve been more suited to pass himself off as the father of Clint. "Which rooms are they in?" he asked Chester. "204 and 206." Doc thanked him for the information, then headed for the stairs leading to the second floor. He found the rooms beside each other, at the end of the hall. Both doors were shut. Doc tried the first one and found it locked tight. Ditto with the second. He tried knocking, first on 204, then on 206. There was no answer to either knock, not a breath of movement behind the door. "Marty?" Doc finally called through the wood of 206. "It’s Doc. I know you’re in there." Another couple minutes passed before Doc came to the conclusion that Marty wasn’t there -- at least not now. He tried the knob again, knowing it was locked, getting a feel for the mechanism. It was an old lock. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small length of wire left over from one of his many experiments and inventions. After wiggling it around in the lock, he heard a click. This time, when he tried the knob, it turned freely. Doc stepped inside the room, trying to ignore the sneaky sensation brought about by breaking and entering. The bed was unmade, but other than that the room appeared vacant. He saw a door slightly ajar across the room. Doc crossed the floor and stuck his head in the second room, discovering it was 204. This one contained two twin beds. One of them was neatly made, the other wasn’t. This room also had no other personal touches in it. "Damn," Doc murmured, frustrated. "What the hell is going on here?" He was tempted to sit down and wait until Marty and the two mysterious kids returned, but he knew it was foolish. Maybe he could drop by later and see if they were here. Or maybe you should just let them contact you, a voice in his head said. There could be very good reasons why Marty hasn’t looked you up yet. You should just let sleeping dogs lie until he shows up on your doorstep. Doc hated to admit that might be the most prudent plan. Curiosity was one trait that he seemed cursed to live with. Half expecting Marty to return now that he decided to avoid him, Doc quickly left the room and returned to the ground floor. He hoped that his presence here today was one piece of news that Kathleen Phillips would neglect to mention in her latest circulation of gossip. * * * "Okay, we’re done with that shot," the photographer announced, looking at the clock on the wall. "Let’s break an’ be back in an hour." Marty watched the room clear out as the crew that had been helping with the photography left for lunch. He tossed the gunbelt he had been posing with onto the table nearby and sat down in a chair, out of the hot sunlight that was passing through the windows and necessary to the photography. "Don’t you want to get something to eat?" Verne asked when Marty made no move for the door. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. The headache that had crept up on him the day before was still with him today, only worse. His throat was also bothering him, feeling tender and sore. Like the headache, it was also getting worse as the day wore on. Marty had the sneaking suspicion he was coming down with something and hoped that he was wrong. He’d never been sick before when time traveling and didn’t want to break that streak now. "I’m just not hungry," he answered softly and honestly. "I’m not feeling the greatest, still." Jules tossed his hand of cards down on the table, where he and Verne had been amusing themselves all morning as Marty fulfilled his job requirements. "It’s awfully stuffy in here," he said. "Even if you don’t want to eat, I think getting some fresh air would be helpful." He looked closely at Marty. "You look as if you could use it, too." "I guess some fresh air wouldn’t hurt," Marty admitted. He stood up again, deliberately ignoring the faint sensation of dizziness accompanying the move, and headed out of the room and down the stairs with the boys. Once outside, he headed for the welcome shade of a tall leafy tree, sighing as he sat down on the grass. Jules and Verne remained standing. "Can we get some food even if you don’t want it?" Verne asked. "We’re hungry." "Sure," Marty said. "How much do you think you’ll need?" "I’m sure a dollar each will more than suffice," Jules said. Marty gave them each the requested amount. "Don’t get lost," he warned, lying back on the grass. "Just go to the first place you can find that sells food." "We’ll be careful," Verne promised. "We’ll be back before you have to go back in." "You’d better," Marty said seriously. He pulled his hat down over his eyes to block out the sunlight and closed his eyes, hoping that it might ease his headache a little. They had gotten up early that morning in order to catch the eight o’ clock train, but he doubted fatigue was his problem. God, I just know I’m getting sick. Probably with a cold or the flu, he thought, frowning to himself. He didn’t relish the idea of trekking out to the DeLorean tomorrow if that was the case. Maybe he should just give up and stay here until the necklace did arrive. The boys wouldn’t mind, he was sure. Yet the idea filled him with unease. He really did want to go home as soon as possible, and it was never any fun to be sick away from home. Marty shifted, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. Had he not promised to be a human prop to the Colt Manufacturing Company, he would’ve definitely bailed on today’s events. The train ride had lasted about two and a half hours and from the moment they had arrived, around ten thirty, he had been kept busy. A representative from the company had met them at the train station and escorted them to a photography studio in town. Their tour guide led them into the building, straight to a large room filled with cameras and painted background scenery. There they met the photographer and the shoot had begun. Marty wasn’t sure what it would be like in the 1980’s, but in this time it was hard to pose for pictures, maybe because the cameras were not as sophisticated or because more light was needed. It had taken one hour to do just one photo -- and they still had 4 pictures more to go! At least he hadn’t needed to change clothes. The ones he had been wearing for the last couple days were fine for what they wanted, and they gave him a duster coat for some of the pictures that he was to keep. His thoughts drifted for a while and it wasn’t until he heard the sound of his name being called that he returned, painfully, to the present. Marty opened his eyes and tilted his hat back, squinting as he looked up at Verne standing over him. "They want you back, now," he said. "Lunch is over." Marty sighed and sat up. "It was fun while it lasted," he muttered. "We’ve got some food left over if you’re hungry," Jules said. "I’m fine," Marty said, tentatively clearing his tender throat. He got to his feet slowly, wishing that Tylenol had already been invented so he could at least ignore the aches and pains. The rest of the day passed slowly. After the lunch break, the photographer pushed harder than he had in the morning for the perfect photographs, requiring Marty to stand in the hot sunlight until he was literally wobbling on his feet. The photographer’s assistant noticed his deteriorating state and allowed him to take a fifteen minute break, during which Marty sat in the shade and drank about two glasses of water. By the time the session wrapped up after a brief break for dinner, it was well after eight. They were dropped off at the train station with fifteen minutes to spare before their ride was to pull out of the station, and it was there that Marty was finally paid the promised twenty five dollars. By that point, Marty couldn’t’ve cared less if they paid him twenty five cents. His throat hurt so badly, he tried to speak as little as possible; his head was actually pounding, and being on his feet was keeping him in a constant state of dizziness. All he wanted to do was lie down somewhere and sleep for a while. "That was interesting," Verne said as they boarded the train. "I never knew that it took so long to shoot pictures." "The strange part is that they might not even use all of them, or any of them," Jules pointed out. "I don’t believe photographs reproduced well for ads now, meaning those pictures might just be used for an artist to create a drawn ad." "God, I don’t want to hear that," Marty murmured. He felt another spell of dizziness and paused long enough to catch his balance against one of the walls before continuing back to their berth. Supposedly, it was one of the nicer accommodations on the train and he was extremely relieved he wouldn’t have to suffer through riding in a narrow seat for the next couple hours. Little oil lamps were already lit in their compartment, chasing away some of the deepening darkness. Two cushioned benches were set across from each other, wide enough to seat perhaps three people on each side. Jules and Verne darted ahead of Marty thought the door, each settling down on opposite seats as the teen shut their door and made sure the latch was engaged. "Okay, guys, my one request is that you both sit over there," he said softly, pointing to the seats on the right. "I’ve gotta lie down and I feel sick enough without riding backwards." "How come you get a whole seat to yourself?" Verne asked, being the one in the seat Marty wanted. Marty merely looked at him. Perhaps Verne noticed the pale, exhausted expression on his face; perhaps he believed he was about to get in trouble. At any rate, he dropped the subject, scooted off the bench, and joined Jules on the other side. Marty tried to lie down on the bench, found he was too tall to do so (that’s a new one, he thought, slightly amused) and compromised by stretching his legs out into the center of their floor space and lying down on his side. "Are you going to sleep?" Jules asked as Marty took his hat off and folded up his freebie duster coat to use as a temporary pillow. "Uh-huh," he said. "But it’s early," Verne said, making a face. "Not even nine yet." "I don’t care," Marty said, trying to get comfortable. "I feel like hell right now and maybe sleep is all I need to feel better." "You don’t look very well, either," Jules said slowly, as if he was afraid of hurting the teen’s feelings. "I don’t mean that as an insult." "At least I know this isn’t all in my head," Marty said, closing his eyes. "I think I’ve got the flu. We might stay an extra day tomorrow if I’m still like this then." "I don’t think either of us has a problem with that," Jules said. "Hmm," was all Marty said, allowing himself to drift off, into a place that, temporarily, he felt no aches and pains in at all. He was never even aware when the train began its return trip toward Hill Valley. * * * Halfway through their seventy mile journey, Verne couldn’t take it any longer. He stood up and walked around the small space a little, scowling with impatience and boredom. "How come we can get from Sacramento in about an hour and a half in a car, but it takes almost two and a half hours to do that on a train?" he complained. "Because driving at a speed of approximately 55 miles an hour will do that," Jules answered, causing Verne to jump. He hadn’t thought his brother was listening to his comment, as Jules seemed to be involved in an intense game of solitaire. "And the train is only traveling in the range of 30 or 40 miles per hour." "That’s too slow!" Verne complained. "I don’t remember it taking so long when we were kids." "Perhaps that was due to technological improvements between now and then," Jules said. "Besides, we didn’t travel on the train more than twice a year, if that." "I still don’t remember it lasting so long," Verne insisted. "Perhaps that was because you had something to amuse yourself," Jules said, looking back down at his cards. "We have another deck, you know." "I’m bored with cards," Verne said, frowning. "I’m bored back here. I think I’m ready to go home now." "Impeccable timing, as always, Verne," Jules said, slightly sarcastic. "Just when Marty wants to stay a little longer, too." Verne glanced at the third member of their party, seemingly comatose on the opposite bench. "What do you think is wrong with him?" he asked. "Or do you think he’s just really, really tired?" "It could be that, and he might have the flu," Jules said without looking up. "Not the best thing to go through, but it could be worse." "But even when I’m sick, I don’t sleep that much," Verne said. "You’re also a kid. Illnesses are a lot different the older you get. You’ve seen how much a simple cold can knock Mother or Father down and they won’t even allow us to stay out of school when we have one. I wouldn’t doubt that by the time we’re Marty’s age, we’d feel very different when we’re sick." "But how can he sleep with all that loud clickety clacking noise from the train?" Jules sighed, looking up. "He just can, Verne." Verne stepped over to the window and looked out, hoping that would provide him a little entertainment. He saw dark landscape, not one light. It was like being deep under water, or maybe in outer space. He sighed and sat back down. "Do you think we’ll see Mom and Dad again before we leave?" Jules almost dropped the cards in his hands. "Verne!" he hissed, his eyes flying to Marty. Verne was unconcerned. "Aw, relax, he can’t hear us. So, do you think we will?" "I doubt it," Jules said, returning to his game. "We couldn’t tonight -- it’s already after ten now. By the time we get back, it’ll be after eleven and too late. And tomorrow Marty might want to leave." "If he’s sick, he wants to stay longer," Verne pointed out. "Perhaps. But we don’t know how his health will be tomorrow. He really could be fine after a night’s rest." Verne didn’t really know how to respond to that. He sighed instead and settled back in his chair, bored. When Jules finished his latest round of solitaire, Verne accepted his offer of a game of poker out of extreme boredom. Another hour passed, painfully slow. The train made a brief stop at Grass Valley, twelve miles west of Hill Valley. As they stopped, Verne was able to see the faint glow of gas lamps in the windows of the train station. About a dozen people disembarked. "How long before we reach Hill Valley now?" he asked Jules. Jules checked his watch. "About twenty minutes, once the train leaves here," he said. "Give or take a few." The train left the station about ten minutes later, whistles blowing to announce the departure. Verne paused in the card game long enough to watch the lights fade off into the distance through the window. A couple minutes later, he was distracted from the game by the sound of a faint, rather weak, moan. He looked up to see Marty finally stirring. The teen lifted his head up, his hands covering his forehead and eyes. "Feeling better?" Jules asked. "No," Marty croaked. "How long was I out?" "Maybe two hours," Jules said. "We should be back in Hill Valley in about fifteen minutes." "Good," Marty whispered. He didn’t sit up, but remained awake, his eyes open, clearly uncomfortable. "Are we going to stay another day tomorrow?" Verne asked. "If I still feel this bad, yeah," Marty said. He put a hand to his throat and grimaced slightly. "I can’t wait to go to bed." Verne looked at him in disbelief, pausing with one card poised in hand. "You’ve been sleeping two hours and you’re still tired?" Marty sighed and closed his eyes. "I feel sick -- I think I have the flu. Sleeping is the best thing I could be doing and I feel too bad to do anything else." "He’s right, Verne," Jules said. "Sleep has been proven to be one of the best recovery medications." Verne shrugged at this. "I always thought restin’ in bed with a TV and room service was best." The train pulled into the Hill Valley station a few minutes early. Because none of them had any luggage, they were among the first to disembark. Marty was moving slowly, staggering a little. Although the walk to the hotel was fairly brief, Jules and Verne had to stop a couple times to allow him to catch up. As they were heading for the stairs that would lead them to their rooms, the bartender stopped Marty. "Mr. Eastwood, have you heard about the funeral yet?" Marty stopped dead. "No. What funeral?" he asked, his already pale complexion going a shade lighter. The bartender looked rather surprised. "The funeral for your brother, Clint. It’s being held at the church at eleven tomorrow morning. They’re lettin’ the people who knew your brother to go up and say a few words at the podium about him. Everyone is expecting you there. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it." Marty blinked. "Everyone?" he echoed. "Yes. You will be attending... won’t you? You might enjoy all the things that the people will be sayin’ and it would give you a chance to meet some of the people your brother knew in this town." Marty took a long time to answer. "Of course I’ll go," he said, trying to smile. "I wouldn’t miss it." He took a step forward, when the bartender spoke again. "Emmett Brown stopped by and asked about you. He’s the blacksmith and a friend of your brother’s. Do you know ‘im?" Marty froze. His eyes darted to Jules and Verne, just ahead of him. This was news to Verne. He looked at his brother. Jules shook his head a bit and shrugged. Is it possible that Dad knew who we were now? Verne wondered. Marty looked like he had a few questions for them both, but turned his attention back to the bartender. "I know him," he said softly. "When did he come by?" "Early this afternoon, I believe. You might want to look ‘im up tomorrow. I know he’s goin’ to the funeral and he’s wantin’ to speak with you." Marty’s face paled even more. "Great," he said, rather faintly. "Thanks for the news." The older man nodded. Marty started for the stairs again, his eyes rather wide and his pace a tad faster this time. "Are we really going to go to your funeral?" Verne asked as they went up the stairs. He thought it sounded kind of cool, being able to attend one’s own funeral. Actually, he probably could if he knew when he died and everything. After a few second’s consideration, though, Verne thought it probably wouldn’t be the best idea. He didn’t really want to know about that part of his life. That would be too creepy, he thought with a shiver. Marty got the strangest expression on his face, as if he realized just then that tomorrow they would be holding, literally, his own funeral. "I never thought about it that way," he murmured. "I’d kind of like to go, if I feel better tomorrow, but there’s no way I’ll go up and make a speech. Your parents would spot me immediately." "That sounds reasonable," Jules said as they reached their room. A frown crossed his face as he turned the doorknob. "That’s odd. I was certain we locked this today." Marty shrugged. "Maybe we didn’t do it right," he said, pushing his way into the dark room, clearly unconcerned. "What time did they say the funeral was?" "Eleven," Jules cited immediately. "Okay. If I’m not up by ten-thirty, will you guys get me up?" "You sure?" Verne asked, doubtful. Marty nodded as he took off his hat, then his sarapé . "Yeah."
Despite the request from the night before, when the voices came, they were not welcome. They cut through the numbing layers of sleep, bringing him back to a place where his head ached and pounded and his throat felt like someone had burned a layer or two of it while he had slept. Swallowing was a fiery agony. "Marty? Marty. Marty! Marty!" A pause. "He’s sleeping too hard." "He was quite adamant about being roused last night," Jules said. He felt one of them take his arm and shake it. "Marty, the funeral starts soon. If you want to go, you have to get up." Marty opened his eyes and tried to talk. "Forget it," he managed, his voice soft and hoarse. "I"m not going." The boys both looked startled. "Not going?" Jules asked. "Why not? It’s your own funeral." "No, it’s for Clint Eastwood," Marty corrected, wincing as he spoke. Talking just aggravated the pain. And, God, he was thirsty. "Anyway, I’m not leaving this bed. I’m too sick." "Are you sure?" Verne asked. "This isn’t ‘cause you wanna sleep in later, is it?" "No, it’s not. Look, I have the flu. If I just lay low today, I should be better tomorrow." "Can we still go?" Jules asked. "Thus far, no one has drawn a connection between you and us." Marty closed his eyes for a second, thinking. If he didn’t give them permission, they’d just wait until he was asleep before going. He sighed as he opened his eyes. "Fine. Just get me some water before you go." The boys were happy to oblige. As soon as they brought him a glass of water, they left. Marty sat up long enough to drink nearly all of it and feel the room do a sickening merry go round before he settled back in the bed. He clutched all the covers around him, incredibly chilled, though he was positive he had a fever. My funeral’s today, he thought, feeling chills unrelated to the illness scamper across his skin. The more he thought about it, the more curious he was -- how would people remember someone who had spent less than a week in their lives? He wished video recorders existed now so he could’ve had one of the boys at least videotape the experience. As much as he wanted to go, though, he knew he was better of staying where he was. Even if he felt fine, there would still be questions to contend with if he was spotted by Doc or Clara. Marty sighed as he rolled over, his face to the window. Shivering a little from chills, he closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep, wondering what was going on at that moment with his so-called burial. * * * Jules and Verne arrived at the church with five minutes to spare before the beginning of the ceremony. Their arrival was noticed by few, if anyone, as far as Jules could see. The only distressing thing he noticed was how much their casual attire stood out from the darker and more formal clothes of the other citizens who had come to pay their respects. Luckily, the room was crowded, to the point that all of the seats and pews were taken. Most of the latecomers hovered at the back of the room, standing against the walls. "Marty would be happy," Verne whispered as they looked around. "Seems like the whole town is here." "Yes," Jules agreed. "It probably is a very good thing that he didn’t come with us, either. I see Mother and Father in the front row." He stared at them, noting how both of their future parents were clad in unusually sober clothes and seated together. Jules had never been to a funeral before. When his grandparents had passed away, they were too distant to allow the entire family the trip to see them. Only their mother had gone. And although their parents had attended the occasional funeral of a friend or acquaintance in town, the boys had never gone with them. "What do they do at funerals?" Verne asked. "Are they gonna bury the coffin up there now?" He nodded to the plain box set up in the front of the church. Jules wondered how they had gotten remains to bury when there was no body. "No, that’s something different. I think that happens after the ceremony." "Oh. Should we sit with Mom and Dad?" "No! There’s no room! And they’re not our parents yet. Stop calling them that in public, Verne." Verne pouted. "But I can’t see back here. Why can’t we get closer?" "We can’t get closer because we stand out by the way we are dressed and we don’t want people to notice us." "What’s wrong with our clothes? They’re authentic." "They’re not appropriate for a funeral. Look around you -- is anyone else dressed so casually?" Verne gazed around the room. "I guess not," he said slowly. A slender, bearded man shut the church doors and walked up the aisle to the front, to stand behind the podium set up. At the sight, the murmured conversations scattered about the room faded and then stopped altogether. "Thank you for attending today’s memorial for Clint Eastwood," the man said in a rather booming voice. "It’s clear to me that this was a young man with many friends and well wishers. I can only wish that we were able to gather together under more positive circumstances. I’m sure that Mr. Eastwood would be touched at this outpouring of support that the community is showing him now." "Too bad we can’t record this for Marty," Verne whispered to Jules. "I think he’d really like it." Jules shrugged a little, wanting to hear what the man had to say. By the way he was dressed, it looked like he was the current priest of the church. "That said, I’d like to invite anyone who wishes to come up here and share words about this young man -- someone who, singlehandedly, captured outlaw Buford Tannen where others could not. It was clear that Clint Eastwood was someone with much potential, making it a tragedy all the more that his life was taken away by the train accident just hours later." "Man, I hope when I die people say such nice things about me," Verne muttered. "Give it time, Verne -- you’re only eight," Jules muttered back. The priest stepped away from the podium as Emmett Brown stood. The boys watched their future father step before the room, pause to survey the people around, then start to speak. "Clint Eastwood was a very good friend of mine for several years," he began. "When I arrived in Hill Valley last January, I didn’t know if I was going to see him again. His visit surprised me and I’m very sorry and saddened that it ended in tragedy. But I’m very proud of the young man he became. Because of his bravery, Hill Valley is now freed of Buford Tannen and our new schoolteacher, Miss Clara Clayton, had her life saved." "No, Dad saved her life," Verne whispered. "Not according to the cover story, Verne," Jules replied. "You know that as well as I do." "I think Clint would be surprised that he touched so many lives in his stay here. Perhaps someday he will know." Emmett paused, a rather sad expression passing over his face as he scanned the faces in the room again. "I don’t suppose his brother is here today?" The townspeople looked about the room, whispering among themselves. When no one said anything, Emmett sighed. "Well, I would’ve enjoyed what he had to say. Although Clint is gone, our memories of him remain and his place in this town’s history won’t be forgotten." With a nod, he returned to his seat. There was no applause for his words, but a rather respectful silence instead. Seamus McFly approached the front next. "I knew Mr. Eastwood for only a few days," he said. "I thought f’sure that he might not live after he agreed to have a showdown with Mr. Tannen. That he solved that problem without resortin’ to shootin’ made me realize what a fine character he was." Seamus sighed. "No tellin’ what the lad might’ve done if he was still with us. God rest his soul." Seamus returned to his seat and another came forward -- the bartender from the saloon. "This is gettin’ boring," Verne whispered. "Do we have to stay?" "Yes," Jules said quickly. "Anyway, there’s nothing else to do right now. If you’re patient, perhaps we can join Mother and Father after the ceremony." That seemed to pacify Verne. He stopped squirming and listened to the bartender’s words. * * * Marty opened his eyes, pain having roused him awake. He swallowed once, the fire in his throat raising the bar of pain a notch in his head. He’d never felt so sick in his life and he had to wonder how high his fever actually was. He wasn’t hallucinating yet... he didn’t think. "Jules? Verne?" His voice sounded weak and hoarse to his ears. Silence greeted his calls. The boys weren’t there, apparently. Marty wondered how much time had passed since they had left for the funeral. Had he been asleep a few minutes? A few hours? He knew one thing for certain -- he was really, really thirsty. Marty reached over to the table by the bed, where he had last left the glass of water the boys had brought them. As he groped for it, he had the bad misfortune to knock it over. The glass didn’t hit the floor, but it spilled what water remained in it on the floor. "Noooo," Marty moaned softly, watching helplessly as the liquid dripped away. He closed his eyes, hoping that he had just imagined the incident, but when he opened them again the water remained spilled. I have to get a drink, Marty thought. If I don’t, I swear I’ll spontaneously combust, burst into flames right here, and then that funeral they’re doing today will really be my only funeral, because no one will know who I am if I start burning by myself. He frowned, the words running through his head not really making much sense to him. Is that hallucinating? Is that what’s happening now? It didn’t matter much -- what did was getting some water. Then he could get more sleep, maybe, and when he woke up again the boys might be back. And, better yet, he could feel better. Marty sat up in bed. The room tilted around him, going out of focus and dimming for a minute, as if he were about to pass out. He sucked in a deep breath and remained sitting up. After a moment things steadied out, but the ache in his head was magnified. Marty tried to ignore it and threw the covers back. He was fully clothed, in two layers if one counted the long underware as one, but with the absence of the covers he started to shiver. Like the dizziness, which still continued, he ignored it and concentrated his eyes on the pitcher and washbasin set on the dresser across the room. His goal. Okay, he thought, standing up. The dizziness he’d felt sitting up was mild in comparison to this kind. A dark wave of pain slammed into his head and he couldn’t help but tip forward -- right for the ground. The landing was hard and painful. Damn, he thought, quite calmly. So, standing up was out. He supposed he wasn’t really surprised. Trembling from the chills, Marty managed to raise himself up on his hands and knees enough to crawl towards the dresser. Even that close to the ground, he felt the floor moving under him, tilting like the deck of a ship at sea. Marty made it across the floor to his goal. He managed to pull himself up with the knobs and handles on the dresser drawers. He got his hands around the pitcher -- and realized that he had left the glass back near the bed. It might’ve been a million miles away. "Damn," he mumbled. He tried lifting the pitcher and nearly dropped it. He knew he was capable of the act, but being sick seemed to turn his muscles to jelly. He sighed and leaned against the dresser, shaking, perspiration covering his skin. Marty raked the back of his hand across his forehead, noticing how hot the skin seemed. The realization seemed to banish the chills that were plaguing him, twisting the thermostat of his body temperature to high. He pushed back his sleeves, and that’s when he noticed it -- what looked like some kind of fine, red rash on his arms. "What the hell?" Marty whispered, drawing one of his arms closer to his face for a better look. He blinked a couple times, but it didn’t fade, and it didn’t seem to be a trick of lighting. Was it related to his fever, or did he pick up some rash from something local? Something he ate? As the thought fluttered through his head, Marty remembered why he was standing there in the first place -- to get water. Forgetting about the cup, he put his lips to the pitcher and tilted it as best he could to take a drink. The maneuver worked -- too well. After a few welcome swallows, he lost his grip on the china and it tipped towards him, dumping water down his front and across the floor. He jumped at the icy touch of the liquid, stumbling back, knocking the pitcher to the floor, and falling back on the damp wood himself. Marty sighed and allowed his head to fall back on the floor. "Great," he groaned. "Keeps gettin’ better." He might’ve just stayed on the floor -- what energy he had gained in the night was nearly out and his head was really aching now -- but the water that had soaked his clothes in the front had once again thrown his sense of temperature way off. He started to shiver, hard, and his new goal was to get back to the bed with it’s warm covers. Shaking, he managed to roll onto his stomach and crawl across the room, again. It seemed more difficult this time, perhaps due to his chills. For every inch he gained, he felt as if he had just gone back two. By the time he reached the bed, Marty was utterly drained. He managed to tug some of the covers down, wrap them tightly around his shoulders, lean back against the bed, then gave into the urge to just relax. It was the last he knew for a while. * * * In Verne’s opinion, the funeral lasted way too long. Standing during the entire thing just made things ten times worse. By the time people left, over an hour had passed. The boys followed their future parents, allowing themselves a bit of distance so they wouldn’t be too obvious in their tailing and so they could talk without being overheard by them. "What should we say to them?" Verne asked. "Tell them we’re sorry ‘bout the death?" He snickered a little, knowing as well as their future parents that Marty wasn’t really dead. "Act sober, Verne. Death is serious. Although you and I know that Clint Eastwood really isn’t dead, as well as Mother and Father, they don’t know that we know, so we have to pretend we don’t." Verne blinked. "Sure," he said, not entirely certain what Jules had just meant with his words. They caught up with the older couple at their father’s barn, knocking politely on the door. The soft conversation that was going on beyond the wall stopped, there were footsteps, and then the door was opened by Emmett Brown. He looked surprised to see them. "Hello, boys. What brings you here today?" "We just wanted to visit," Verne said. "If that’s okay." "Well, I suppose so...." Without waiting for an invitation, Verne stepped inside. Jules followed, less confidently than his younger brother. He saw their future mother standing in the living area of the structure. Her eyes widened a little at the sight of them. "John and Mario?" she asked, sounding a little tentative. "I didn’t know that you knew Do-- Mr. Brown." "We know him about as well as we do you," Verne said, completely honest. "We saw you at the funeral for Clint Eastwood," Jules said. "You made a very nice speech. Did you know him well?" "Oh yes, quite well," Emmett said as he shut the barn doors. He stared at Jules and Verne with an intensity that made Verne, at least, feel a tad uncomfortable. It reminded him of the look his dad would give him when he was trying to read his mind and see if he was telling the truth. Parent ESP. "Did you know him?" "Not really. He wasn’t here that long," Jules said. "He seemed a nice sort of fellow, I reckon." Verne managed to swallow a laugh as his sibling slipped into that weird backwoods accent again. Emmett and Clara looked at each other. Clara walked towards them, slowly. "Were your parents at the funeral?" she asked. "No, they’re sick right now," Verne said, manipulating the truth a bit. "They told us to go for ‘em." The adults exchanged another look. "Are they very ill?" Clara asked. "Perhaps we should pay them a visit--" "No!" Jules said sharply, his quick and vehement reply causing their someday parents to stare at him, mouths open. "I mean, I don’t feel that’s a good idea. You might get sick, too." It was a lame finish, and Verne was sure Jules knew that, too. "What are your parents’ names?" Emmett asked, perhaps sensing the fib. Verne said the first words that popped into his head, recalling origins of his fake name. "Zelda and Link," he said. His brother sighed softly at his citation of more video game characters. "Zelda and Link Newton." "Were they born in America?" Clara asked. "Our ma was born in England, and our pa was born in New York. His parents were from England, though," Jules said, quickly. "They were named after family members." Clara could only accept this explanation, having certainly never heard of video games. Their father, who didn’t seem to pay attention to such things, even after having a son interested in the recreational device, looked puzzled but said nothing more on the matter. Verne hoped that this would be the last probing question they would be asked. He was wrong, of course. * * * "Sheesh," Verne said a few hours later, as they finally left the barn. "They really wanted to grill us." "Not surprising, Verne," Jules said. "I think they might sense something about us, especially since you gave them such odd names!" "Oh, come on, we got odd names in real life," Verne said. "They should think the ones I gave ‘em are normal." He paused. "Let’s go do something today." Jules glanced up at the sky. Clouds were rolling in, dark colored and rather menacing in appearance. "I don’t know if that would be very wise," he said. "Looks like we might have a storm." Verne frowned. "It’s only three," he said. "We still got time before it gets dark." "Do you want to be out in the middle of nowhere when it starts to rain? Not to mention the electrical activity that will likely accompany the storm. That’s the most dangerous place to be, in a rather flat area when there is lighting around. I’m not going to risk it." Verne sighed. "You’re too boring, Jules," he said. "Might not happen." "Better safe than sorry," Jules returned. Not knowing what else to say, Verne resigned himself to spending the remainder of the day indoors. He followed his brother to the hotel, hearing the first faint rumble in the distance from the approaching storm. "I hope Marty is feeling better," Jules said as they entered the building, heading for the stairs. "Do you think he’s been sleeping all day?" Verne asked, thinking how dull that would be. Jules shrugged. "Quite likely, especially if he has a fever. Trust me, Verne, when you’re older you might do the same if you’re ill." He tried Marty’s door and found it unlocked. "Be quiet, just in case he is asleep," he said softly as he pushed open the door. The first thing Verne noticed as the door swung open was that the pitcher on the dresser had fallen to the floor and shattered. The floorboards were still dark with the water that had spilled. As the door inched open further, he saw that the bed was empty. "Where...?" he started to say. "There," Jules whispered, pointing. Verne’s eyed followed his fingers and saw a cluster of blankets on the floor beside the bed. It took him a good deal of staring before he saw the top of the human head sticking out. "Did he fall out of bed?" Verne asked, also whispering, as they stepped into the room. Lighting flashed as they approached the bed, creating twisted and grotesque shadows in the room. Jules knelt next to Marty, gently tugging the blanket down enough to show his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, and he was breathing was a little too fast for someone who seemed to be asleep. "What’s wrong?" he asked, feeling like something wasn’t right with this picture. Jules, apparently, shared the feeling. He frowned and touched Marty’s face. "My God, Verne," he said softly, a rather horrified awe in his voice. "He’s burning up!" "So he has a fever...?" Verne asked, not seeing the point. Jules grabbed his hand and brought it to Marty’s face. Their friend’s skin was really hot to the touch, Verne noticed immediately. "A high fever?" he said aloud. "Verne, get a washcloth and soak it in water," Jules said. "We have to wake him up." Verne followed his brother’s orders, going into their ajoining room to take care of the task. When he returned with the soaked washrag, Jules was lighting Marty’s beside lamp to ward off the increasing darkness as the stormclouds outside overtook the sky. The thunder, too, was gradually growing closer and louder. Verne passed the washrag to his brother and watched as Jules wiped it over Marty’s face. The teen groaned, faintly, but made no move to open his eyes. "Marty? Marty. If you can hear us, open your eyes. Wake up. It’s important. It’s an emergency." Marty’s eyelids twitched, as if he was indeed trying to open his eyes. "Wha-?" he croaked out, the question said as a groan. "We’re concerned, Marty," Jules said, continuing to dab the cool rag on his skin. "Open your eyes." Marty seemed to struggle, briefly, and finally opened his eyes. Verne didn’t like the look of them -- they were glassy and rather dead. "How do you feel?" Jules asked. "Bad," Marty whispered, his voice raspy. He shifted slightly, slipping an arm out from the blankets and touching his throat gently. Jules frowned at his reply, taking one of his hands to Marty’s throat and slipping his fingers up to under his chin and back near the ears. Verne didn’t know what he did, but Marty suddenly gasped and swatted Jules’s hands away, drawing away from him. "Don’t," he moaned. Jules appeared unruffled by his protest. "Your lymph nodes are swollen and, judging by your reaction, painful to the touch," he said. "Can you sit up? You might be more comfortable in bed." "Lemme try." Jules scooted away a few inches as Marty slowly sat up. With Verne’s help, he was able to make the transition from the floor to the bed without disaster. He started to shiver, violently, the moment the blankets were off him, and continued to do so even after the boys had covered him up again. Jules stared at Marty a moment as he lay back on the pillows with a strangely flushed face and looking utterly miserable. "You seem to have a high fever and a severe sore throat, correct?" Marty blinked. "Yes," he whispered. "So he has the flu?" Verne asked, not getting it. Marty shook his head once, slowly. "Too sick," he whispered. "Time to get the doc." Jules looked as surprised as Verne felt. "You want us to get him?" he asked. "Yeah... maybe he has something to give me." Marty paused, swallowing with a pained grimace. "This ain’t a flu, I don’t think." "All right," Jules said. "Verne, wait here. I’ll get him." "Why can’t I go?" Verne asked immediately, not wanting to get the short end of the stick on this. Not that he didn’t want to stay with Marty, but if it was a choice between that and doing something more exciting.... "I volunteered first," Jules said, hurrying for the door. "Wait with Marty." Verne sighed, rather irritated, as his brother left the room. "I hope he gets soaked out there," he muttered.
Doc watched the rain as it started to come down outside, thunder rumbling rather threateningly. "Looks like we might have to delay your trip home," he said to Clara as she stood next to him. The schoolteacher sighed. "I understand," she said. "I wouldn’t want to be out in all that thunder and lightning if I were you, either, from what you’ve told me. I was just hoping to get a start on my lesson plans for next week." "The storm will probably blow over before dark," Doc said, recalling his experiences with such things through the years. "In the meantime, I think this is the perfect opportunity for me to treat you to a dinner." Clara blushed. "Oh, Emmett, you don’t have to do that." Doc smiled. "Why not? You cooked dinner for me last night. It was very good. The least you could do is allow me to return the favor." Clara smiled at him, stepping closer. "I suppose so," she said. "Especially after the way I behaved when you came to my door Sunday night." At the memory of it, her cheeks flushed a deeper red. Doc put his arm around her. "I’ve told you before, Clara, that’s in the past and forgotten. Your reaction was a perfect illustration of why I didn’t even tell Marty about my breakthrough invention. I had to show it to him first, allow him to see it with his own eyes, and then I knew I would be believed." "Perhaps so, but I didn’t even give you the chance to show me anything," Clara said, resting her head on his shoulder. "If I would have kept a better hold on my temper, perhaps such reason would have occurred to me." "But things worked out well," Doc reminded her. "You’re here right now, with me. And you do believe now." "Yet because you came back for me, you missed your only chance to go home," Clara said softly. "Don’t think that went by me, Emmett. I feel terrible about it." Doc suspected he might, too, when that news really sunk in. There had to be a way out of the past, however, even if it took him another thirty years to find it. He posed too great a danger to the future being here, and Clara did as well. She would have died had he not been here, after all. "I would much rather be here with you than in the future alone," he said honestly. Clara smiled a little, snuggling closer to him. "You are an extraordinary man, Emmett--" "Excuse me, Mr. Brown," a child’s voice said from nearby. At the sound of a third party, the couple stepped apart from each other and turned to look in the direction of the voice. John Newton stood in the doorway, dripping rainwater. "What brings you here, John?" he asked, clearing his throat. John stared at him a moment, shifting his eyes to Clara. "I don’t know quite how to say this," he said. "Marty McFly is really ill and he wants to see you." Doc was certain that he misheard the words. "What?" he asked, blinking, as his mind struggled to process this information. "Your friend, Marty McFly. Also known as Clint Eastwood. Also known as his twin brother, J.W." Doc stared at the boy for another moment, then looked at Clara. She looked as surprised as he. "You know Marty?" she asked the boy. John nodded, once. "But don’t ask any more questions, not unless you want to know things you don’t want to know. He’s in the Palace hotel." Doc wasn’t terribly surprised by that; the news that John knew Marty, however, was throwing him for a great loop. And Marty is ill? he wondered, worried. "Lead the way," he said. John stepped back out into the rain. Doc took a moment to loan Clara his coat before they followed the boy outside, hurrying through the downpour. "How is Marty sick?" he asked as they ran. "He’s got a high fever, swollen lymph nodes, and his throat hurts," John answered. "His illness is why he wasn’t at today’s funeral." "You don’t suppose it’s serious, do you?" Clara asked when they reached the shelter of the covered porch, just outside the Palace. "Didn’t you tell me that in the future, many of the deadly diseases of today are all but gone or under control?" "That’s true," Doc agreed after a moment’s hesitation. "But there’s nothing preventing us from catching some of those illnesses now." He looked at John as the boy entered the saloon. "Are you certain it’s not a case of the flu?" "You’ll see for yourself why we know it’s more serious than that," John said rather grimly. Clara stepped closer to Doc as they followed the boy to the stairway that led to the hotel rooms. "Do you know this boy, Emmett?" she whispered. "Is he a friend of yours or Marty’s from the future?" "I’ve never seen him before in my life," Doc said. "I think." "You think?" "Well, I thought from the first time I saw both him and his brother that there was something familiar about them...." Any further discussion of the matter would have to wait. They reached the second floor and John led them directly to the same room that Doc had visited the day before. This time when he entered it, however, he found two people inside -- Mario and Marty. The latter was lying in bed, his cheeks flushed and skin damp with sweat. Doc knew at once that John was correct to react the way he did. It didn’t look like the flu. "Marty, what are you doing here?" he had to ask as he came to the bedside. Marty looked like he was about to pass out when he saw the scientist. "Doc?!" he croaked. "How did...." He looked at John. "I thought you were going to get the town doctor!" John blinked. "Oh. You just said to get ‘the doc.’ How was I supposed to know you meant someone different?" Marty closed his eyes and sighed. Doc touched his forehead, finding it to be rather hot but nothing more. He looked at Clara, still hovering near the doorway. "Clara, what do you think?" he asked, trusting the words of someone who might be more used to the illnesses of this time. Clara came forward, stepping to the other side of the bed. She touched his face, tentatively. A frown settled on her face. "He’s quite warm, Emmett," she said. "I think we might want to fetch the town doctor." "I’ll do it!" Mario volunteered immediately. "I can do it," John said, rather stiffly. Mario snorted. "Yeah, right, Jules. You screwed up and--" The blond boy’s words ground to a halt and he snapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. But it was too late. Both Doc and Clara turned their heads to stare first at Mario, then his brother. "Jules?" they said at once. The dark haired boy frowned. "Jules is my middle name," he said rather smoothly. Doc didn’t let that go so easily, though, and neither did Clara. They looked at one another, eyes wide. Doc could practically read her thoughts, likely the same as his own. The odds of a child having the name of Jules, being with Marty.... "Great Scott!" he breathed softly, realizing at once why the boys had both looked so naggingly familiar to him, why they had hung around both him and Clara in the last few days. By the expression on Clara’s face, it was clear that she was reaching the same conclusions. "John an’ I are gonna get the doctor," Mario -- Was that his real name? Doc wondered -- said, shattering the moment. "Is it still Dr. Peterson?" The choice of words was curious and seemed yet another piece to the puzzle that was being solved more by the moment. "Yes," Doc said. "Do you know where to find him?" "I do," John-Jules said. "We’ll be back as soon as we can." The boys ran out of the room. Clara frowned as she glanced outside. "I hope they don’t catch their death out there," she murmured. "They’ll be soaked to the bone in a minute." Indeed, the rain was pounding down hard outside, darkening the sky so much it looked like twilight. Doc adjusted the glow of the lamp a little and looked at Marty again. His eyes were still closed and his breathing was a little less ragged. Although only a couple minutes had passed since he had spoken to his old friend, it didn’t surprise Doc that he had probably dozed off, if he was as ill as he looked. "What is going on here, Emmett?" Clara whispered, turning from the window to look at him. "Who are those boys? Is it possible that they... that we...." "Anything is possible," Doc said in a low voice, gently tugging some of the blankets off Marty in hopes of cooling him down. "I don’t believe we want to know -- we shouldn’t know. No one should know too much about their own future! It can cause tremendous problems and dilemmas." Clara nodded. "I suppose that is wise, yes," she agreed. She slipped her hand over Marty’s forehead again, the expression on her face shifting to one of clear worry. "Emmett, he’s really hot," she said. "What do you think it is?" he asked, picking up the damp washrag that the blond boy had left on the pillow. Clara frowned. "I’m not certain," she admitted. "I don’t see any spots on him, so he can’t be ill with the measles or smallpox. I don’t believe he has pneumonia -- he’s not coughing at all...." Doc reached out and gently felt around Marty’s neck, recalling John-Jules’ earlier comment about swollen lymph nodes. The touch caused Marty to moan softly. Doc withdrew his hand -- and noticed something odd as he did so. The skin on his neck was covered with splotches of red, like a rash. He leaned in for a closer look, trying not to block the light of the lamp, and ran his hand lightly over the skin. It felt rough, almost like sandpaper. Strange. "What do you suppose this is?" he asked Clara. She leaned in for a look. "I don’t know," she admitted. "Do you?" Doc shook his head, staring at it. "It’s not poison ivy, poison oak, chicken pox, or measles," he said. "I’ve had all four, and the rashes I had didn’t look anything like this." Clara turned and went to the window, pulling an edge of the curtain back for a look outside. "I’m sure the doctor will know what it is. He’s probably seen his share of illness in frontier towns like this one." Lighting flashed, illuminating the room fully for a second. Only then did Doc notice the remains of what looked to be a broken pitcher and dark spots of spilled water on the floor. He left the bedside and came around to investigate. "What do you suppose happened here?" he asked Clara, kneeling down beside the unfortunate remains of the pitcher. She looked over at Doc, then toward the bed. "Perhaps Marty tried to get some water earlier and spilled it," she suggested. "Or perhaps those boys know." She lowered her voice again. "Emmett, those boys...." "I know," Doc said, understanding perfectly where she was coming from. "Try not to think about it." * * * As Doc and Clara cleaned up the mess made by the shattered pitcher and both tried to distract themselves away from thoughts about the two boys, Marty drifted through layers of darkness, feeling detached from everything and rather oblivious to the things going on around him. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable state to be in, feeling so numb and detached, but after what seemed to be a while, the darkness ebbed away, replaced by the pain and a terrible, burning sensation that made him wonder if his blood had been replaced with gasoline. It dragged his eyes open. Pain exploded in his head at the simple move and blurred red and gold shapes danced before him. After a moment he realized they were flames. A flame, in particular, burning in a lamp that he was staring at. Marty blinked a few times, his eyes gradually focusing on the rest of his surroundings. After a moment of severe disorientation, he realized he was still in his room in the Palace Hotel. He slipped a hand out from under the blankets and pressed it to his face, wondering if it would feel as hot to the touch as he felt from the inside. He honestly couldn’t tell. His throat was burning, felt swollen, and his head felt like it had rammed into a concrete wall. Marty would’ve shoved off the quilts, hoping to cool down a little, but he just didn’t have the energy and it was too much trouble to move. "The storm seems to be getting worse, Emmett," he heard Clara say softly from nearby. His eyes went wide a little at that. Clara! How can she be here? Maybe this is a hallucination....? He turned his head a little but saw no one in the room with him. A creepy sensation slipped up and down his spine when he dimly realized he probably was hallucinating. Wonderful. "I’m fairly certain that they reached the doctor," he heard Doc Brown say. This brought a faint memory forth; he vaguely remembered Doc coming into the room right before drifting off into the dark, detached place. Maybe he wasn’t hallucinating, after all. "As long as he was at his home, I suspect they’ll be back any minute." There was a pause. "Do you think Marty will recover?" Clara asked. Another pause. Marty realized he was able to hear the sound of rain on the roof and the rumble of thunder -- the storm they were perhaps talking about What time was it, anyway? He tried to find a clock but gave up quickly and let his eyes close. The pain in his head diminished by a degree. "I wonder if we should keep him awake until the doctor comes?" "Do you think it’s necessary?" "I don’t know. Sleeping is good when one is ill, but this illness may be serious...." He heard footsteps, two distinct pairs. When they stopped, Marty knew that they were standing over him, looking down. Nevertheless, he jumped when he felt a cool hand on his cheek. The shift in temperature was rather nice. "Marty?" Doc called. "Marty, wake up." "No," he croaked, hardly able to talk past the pain in his throat. "Clara and I would like to talk to you," Doc said. Marty wasn’t sure if he wanted to speak with them. "Hurts to talk," he muttered, turning his head away from where he pinpointed Doc. "Open your eyes, then, and we’ll talk," Doc said. Marty frowned but humored them. The older couple stood on one side of the bed, together, both dressed in dark colored clothes. Only then did he realize that today -- if it was still today -- the town had held his funeral. "How was it?" he whispered, unable to resist asking. Doc and Clara looked confused. "How was what?" Doc asked. "My funeral." "Emmett said some very touching words about you," Clara said. "I believe you would’ve enjoyed it." "How are you?" Doc asked, something in his eyes telling Marty that was the least of his questions. Marty shrugged, putting a hand to his throat. "I’m sick," he muttered. "How do you think I feel?" "Your friends are out getting the medical doctor," Clara said. "They should be back any moment." The words had scarcely left her lips when the door opened and Jules, Verne, and a tall gray haired man that Marty didn’t know came in. All three were pretty well drenched from the downpour outside. The doctor nodded at both Doc and Clara. "Evening Mr. Brown, Miss Clayton. How are you this evening?" "We’ll be better once we know what’s wrong with Ma-- ah, Mr. Eastwood," Doc said, correcting himself. Marty watched the doctor approach the bed. "He has a high fever, a sore throat, and swollen lymph nodes?" he asked. "And a rash," Doc said. "We just noticed it a few minutes ago. Only then did Marty remember the strange splotches on his arms that he had noticed earlier. The doctor frowned at this news as he set his black bag down at the foot of the bed and opened it up. "Where’s the rash?" he asked, withdrawing a stethoscope. "Around his neck," Doc said. "It might be in other places, but I never thought to check until now." The medical doctor took Marty’s arm and rolled back his sleeve. It was quite easy to see the fine red splotches, almost like red goosebumps, scattered over the skin. It looked like they had darkened and multiplied since Marty had first noticed them. The doctor frowned a little, running a hand over them. "Do they itch?" he asked Marty. The teen shook his head. The doctor conducted a brief examination, listening to his heart rate, feeling his forehead, and finally looking down his throat. "There’s definite swelling back there," he muttered, perhaps to himself. "It’s quite red. The tongue also is inflamed." "Do you know what’s wrong?" Clara asked softly as the doctor leaned back. The doctor nodded. "Yes," he said after a moment. "Mr. Eastwood has scarlet fever."