"The universe is not hostile, nor yet is it friendly. It is simply indifferent." -- John Haynes Holmes


Monday, September 7, 1885
8:36 A.M.
Hill Valley, California

“Marty, are the time circuits on?”

Marty McFly’s voice crackled over the speaker of the walkie-talkie a moment later. “Check, Doc!”

Emmett Brown smiled. “Input the destination time: October 27, 1985, 11 A.M.,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the steam locomotive.

“Check,” Marty’s voice said a moment later. Then: “We’re cruising at a steady twenty-five miles an hour, Doc.”

Doc took a deep breath as he looked at the speed gauge inside the train. It was time to take care of the final step that would ensure a successful trip back to the future. “I’m throwing in the Presto Logs,” he announced. He dropped the radio in the pocket of his coat to do just that, moving as quickly as possible, not wanting to burn his hands or his face. Once they were in and the boiler was closed again, Doc fished out the radio to address his friend once more.

“Marty, the new gauge on the dashboard will tell you the boiler temperature. The color coding indicates when each log will fire -- green, yellow, and red. Each detonation will be accompanied by a sudden burst of acceleration. Hopefully, we’ll reach 88 miles per hour before the needle hits two thousand.”

There was a pause, then the inevitable question. “Why? What happens after it hits two thousand?”

“The whole boiler explodes.”

There was a crackle of static accompanying Marty’s reply. “Perfect!”

Doc opened his mouth to say something else when their was a muffled blast from inside the boiler. The first log had detonated -- and the train suddenly surged forward as if it had been kicked by a giant. Doc felt a rush of adrenaline at the sensation -- but that feeling vanished the moment he heard the horrible sound of metal-on-metal, a screech that made the hairs all over his body stand on end. The cab lurched violently to the right, knocking the inventor right off his feet.

Great Scott, we’ve derailed!

Doc’s head clipped the metallic wall as he fell, pain shooting through his forehead. He remained conscious, however, concerned with two things -- the DeLorean, and stopping the vehicle. He reached up for the emergency break lever, yanking it back as hard as he could from his semi-sprawl. Even as he pulled, the train was slowing, bumping over the uneven terrane. The scientist stretched a hand for the windowsill and pulled himself forward, needing to see what had happened to the time machine. If the train had plowed right over it....

Doc saw the debris first, falling in the wake of the time machine, which was still moving forward quite fast. Both doors of the vehicle had popped open in the turbulence, flapping limply with every bump. The scientist couldn’t tell if Marty was still in the vehicle. He winced at the sight of the cowcatcher resting on the back bank of the car, crushing the sensitive devices mounted in that area.

It seemed like a small eternity before both vehicles finally slowed to a crawl, and then a stop. From the time of the derailment to that moment, perhaps thirty seconds had passed; it had happened so fast. The boiler was groaning and hissing, angry, but Doc paid it no mind. He started to climb out of the window, far more concerned with the damage to the time machine and how Marty had weathered the crash.

“Emmett!”

The cry, coming as he was swinging a leg over the metal lip of the windowsill, was so thoroughly unexpected that Doc nearly fell out of the cab. He swung his head around, searching out the source of the familiar feminine voice. Surely his ears had to be deceiving him.... “Emmett, are you all right?”

Doc’s darting gaze found the face that belonged to that voice after a another moment. “Clara?!” he gasped.

Somehow, going against logic and every scientific argument he could think of, Clara Clayton was running his way, dodging the bits and pieces from the time machine that had scattered in a wide area. Her face was as white as marble, her hair streaming loosely behind her, and she stumbled once or twice, clearly shaken. Yet she still looked stunning -- like a badly wished for hallucination. Perhaps that was just what she was -- a hallucination brought about by the recent stress and the blow to the head.

But why would she be wearing something I’ve never seen before in my entire life? Could my imagination fabricate eighteenth century women’s clothing in such painstaking detail?

“Yes!” Clara called in response to his exclamation, catching sight of him for the first time and giving him a wide, albeit shaky, smile. “I came after you to let you know that I believed you and that.... Oh my goodness, are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Doc said, lying only a little. His head was throbbing, particularly above his right eyebrow. He was about to add something else when he caught sight of a pile of clothes that looked exactly what Marty had been wearing that day. No... it wasn’t clothes. It was Marty, crumpled on the ground a couple dozen feet away, face down. His head was no more than two feet from the rails. Doc felt his heart temporarily freeze in his chest. “I don’t think Marty is, though,” he said, half whispering the words. “He’s over there and he’s not moving, Clara.”

“Marty?” The schoolteacher’s voice was puzzled. “Who’s Marty?”

Doc had almost forgotten -- she didn’t know. Well, there was never a better time than the present to end another facade. “Clint! Clint Eastwood is Marty! And I think he’s hurt.”

The schoolteacher immediately saw what Doc was pointing to and veered in that direction. Being closer, she reached him before the inventor could get over there, picking and stumbling his way over the debris, and reached out a hand to no doubt roll him onto his back. Doc’s reaction was instinctual and immediate.

“No, wait!” he shouted, his tone sharp. “Don’t move him! He could have a spinal or neck injury!”

Clara withdrew her hand, turning to look at Doc with a look of surprise on her face. “He shouldn’t be face down, Emmett,” she said as he finally arrived at her side and knelt down next to Marty. “I don’t think he can breathe clearly.”

“I’ll handle it,” Doc said, distracted as he tried to remember what first aid training he’d had. “Clara, can you run to town and get the doctor? I’m sure the law authorities are already on their way.”

Clara nodded without hesitation. “Certainly,” she said. “And I think you should be looked over, too. Your forehead is bleeding, Emmett.”

Doc reached up at the area that was throbbing and wiped at it rather absentmindedly. He looked at the blood staining his fingertips for a moment, then wiped it away on his coat. “It’s just a scratch,” he said, focusing more on his friend’s condition. “Marty?”

The teenager did not move -- did not so much as twitch. He lay eerily still, as limp as the proverbial rag doll. Doc looked at Clara and she bit her lip and turned away, starting to make her way towards the town at a run; she knew the situation was serious.

“Marty?” Doc tried again, his voice softer. Predictably, it did nothing to change the situation. The inventor looked at his friend and, after a moment of terrible indecision, decided to do what he had just told Clara to avoid: he reached out and, as gently as he could, rolled Marty onto his back.

The teen was still alive, breathing. His eyes were closed, and Doc saw an immediate cause for his current, still state: there was a painful-looking welt embedded in his forehead, just above his right eye. In spite of being perhaps minutes old, it was already swelling and bruising up. The scientist sucked in a breath through his teeth, knowing a serious injury when he saw it. He started to reach out to touch the wound, then realized that might not be a good idea and dropped his hand. “Damn,” he whispered, frustrated and horrified by the current circumstances.

And that wasn’t even going into the issue of the time machine. One thing at a time; right now Marty’s health was by far the most important.

Doc took the teen’s pulse, which seemed strong, and carefully checked for any signs of bleeding from the head. In cases of serious head injuries there might be blood coming from the ears, or even nose. Fortunately, there was no signs of the dark fluid; in fact, there was no sign of any blood, save for Doc’s own that was beginning to trickled down along the arch of his eyebrow and down the side of his face. The inventor hardly noticed, wiping it away as absentmindedly as he would sweat.

A brief evaluation of Marty’s current condition told Doc little more than the obvious; the teen was unconscious. In the cursory glance he had, the inventor didn’t believe any bones were broken -- the bruise on the head looked to be the most serious injury -- and Marty appeared to be in stable condition. Nevertheless, Doc was nervous. He finally stood from his friend’s side to pace about, both to vent his nervous energy and survey the wreckage.

The train was still groaning and hissing, protesting it’s unnatural state and interrupted journey. Pieces of the time machine -- decidedly futuristic devices that included snippets of circuitboards, wires, transformers, and even a shattered Mr. Fusion -- littered the ground for what looked to be a quarter mile stretch. Doc shuddered as he took it all in, realizing that he couldn’t hide this mess from the locals -- and that it might take a couple weeks to clean up so that absolutely no trace remained.

Why did the train derail? All the research conducted suggested that both the rails and the engine could handle the acceleration rate and top speeds predicted!

Doc hurried over to where the DeLorean had come to a stop -- crumpled and dented in what looked to be beyond contemporary repair. He peered inside the cab for a moment, noticing that the time circuits were dark, and the flux capacitor shattered. The inventor felt both grief-stricken -- his time machine, his pride and joy, didn’t look like it would ever work again -- and relieved. At least it couldn’t fall into the wrong hands in the current condition, like it had with Biff Tannen in the future.

The sound of approaching hoof beats scattered his thoughts. Doc looked up, trying to hone in on the sound, and stepped away from the DeLorean to hurry back to Marty’s side. With any luck, the time machine wouldn’t be overtly noticed by any of the locals. Not with the steam train making all the noise and Marty’s condition to focus on.

The inventor didn’t have very long to wait before the horses and riders came into view, galloping amid clouds of dust. Doc was all but certain that Clara hadn’t summoned them; there was probably a report made to the law authorities that the train had been hijacked. With a speed that surprised him, Doc cobbled together a story to explain the wreckage, as well as how he and Marty had come to be there in the first place.

The first two men on the site were the sheriff, Henry Rogers, and the marshall, James Strickland. Doc wasn’t sure who the other three men behind them were, but he did recognize them from seeing them around town on the streets. The locals drew their animals to a halt at the sight of the wrecked train, expressions of wide-eyed surprise clear on their face.

Yes, it was clear that Clara hadn’t run into them on her way to town and warned them about the accident.

“What in the name of hellfire happened?!” the sheriff exclaimed as he dismounted. “Emmett -- are you all right?”

Doc nodded once. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s Ma--Clint who’s been injured. Clara-- ah, Miss Clayton -- went to fetch the doctor. She happened by right after the accident.”

Marshall Strickland was slower to get off his horse. Doc could see he was immediately suspicious about this scene; he had seen that narrow-eyed expression on his face, as well as those of his decedents, before. “What happened here?” the marshall demanded. “We had a report that the train was hijacked by two men.”

“It was,” Doc said, summoning his hastily compiled story. “Clint and I went after them, and we tried to stop them with a rail vehicle I was working on... but it derailed the train instead of stopping it. The two men took off on foot; they weren’t hurt.”

The marshall’s eyebrows arched up, the expression almost comedic. “You derailed the train?”

“It was an accident,” Doc said, his calm voice surprising even him. The inventor realized, only then, that he was probably in a mild state of shock from the events of the last... well, hour or so. His surroundings had a faint feeling of unreality to them.

Is this really all happening? Or is this a nightmare?

“And I think there are more important things to worry about right now,” Doc concluded quickly. He looked down at the still-unconscious Marty.

Marshall Strickland didn’t seem to share that sentiment. It didn’t entirely surprise the scientist. “That’s a serious offense, Emmett....”

Doc sighed, annoyed by the law enforcer’s one track mind. “I understand,” he said, his voice still coming out eerily calm. “But I think that can wait until later. Clint’s hurt, and I don’t intend to relax until I know that he’s out of danger.”

The marshall stared at him a moment. His face softened -- for a split second. He nodded once, then knelt down next to the inventor’s side to have his own look at the teen. Doc saw him frown as he saw the bump on Marty’s forehead. After a moment he stood and shouted an order to the sheriff, who had drifted in the direction of the wrecked locomotive. Rogers hadn’t noticed or investigated the time machine just yet.

“Henry! Ride into town and fetch a buckboard!”

The bearded man stopped and turned around, clearly uncertain. “Marshall?”

Strickland nodded curtly. “Mr. Eastwood’s wounded. Make haste.”

The sheriff hurried back over to his horse and mounted him quickly. He galloped off just as more people were trickling onto the site, likely drawn by all the noise from the derailment -- or simple curiosity. Doc lowered his head, not feeling up to facing anyone right now, let alone the town gossips.

Fortunately, Marshall Strickland shared a similar sentiment. “I don’t want nobody touching nothing!” he bellowed. “This accident is going to be under investigation; this is all evidence. Beckett, Banning, I want you both to ride out and look around for these outlaws. Did you get a good look at them, Emmett?”

Doc’s mind spun as he tried to decide how to answer that question. The last thing he wanted was someone to get arrested based on a crime they had never committed. “Ah, no, it happened so fast.... They both had masks over their faces.”

Even with such a vague description to go by, the two men set off on their assigned task. The marshall ordered a few others to secure the site, and they immediately spread out in a rough sort of perimeter. Doc was beyond grateful that the accident had waited until they were on the unfinished train line. He hated to think how much history could skew if the main line out of Hill Valley had been shut down for a few days for this clean up and investigation.

Strickland touched Doc’s shoulder as the latter nervously watched a few men approach the train. It wouldn’t be much longer before the DeLorean was sighted. “I’m going to need to talk to you about what happened,” he said.

“Later would be better,” Doc said.

The marshall was surprisingly flexible. “Before the end of the day,” he said. “I’m sure your... what relation is Mr. Eastwood to you, anyway?”

No one had asked Doc that question, yet. The current etiquette would probably consider such a query rude. The marshall, however, was just as blunt as his descendants. Sometimes Doc appreciated that, since few people he had met in this time were so inclined to speak their minds.

Now, however, was not one of those times.

He had to provide an answer that would follow him and Marty for the rest of their stay in the 1880s... which might be considerable. Doc decided to simply tell the truth in this case.

“He’s a close friend of mine; I consider him to be a member of the family. I have no real family around anymore, and neither does he.” In the past, anyway, excepting the McFlys and the Lathrops, Doc added to himself, recalling Marty’s great-great grandparents, and his own mother’s family, which had already settled into Hill Valley.

The marshall accepted the answer with a nod. “I’m sure he will be fine,” he said, indicating Marty. “The doctor should be here in no time.”

Indeed, it wasn’t much longer before Clara reappeared on the back of a galloping horse, clinging tightly to the doctor’s waist. The middle-aged man pulled the stead to a quick stop as he reached the rails, allowing the animal time to catch his breath. He looked slightly disheveled, probably from the quick ride, not even bothering with a hat and coat on this morning. He did, however, have his black bag. Dr. William Peterson wasted little time in passing the horse’s reigns to Clara and dismounting. Doc stood as he approached.

“How is he?” the doctor asked, having apparently been briefed by Clara.

“Unconscious,” Doc said. “He struck his head in the head in the accident.”

The doctor got his first look at Marty -- and the ugly bruise -- and frowned. He knelt down at his side. Doc followed his example, to better converse with him and fill him in. “I don’t think he’s been hurt anywhere else, but I would feel better if you gave him an examination after he’s moved. When I found him he was face down, but I was very cautious in rolling him over. I don’t think there were any spinal injuries.”

The doctor looked up at him, clearly flabbergasted by the words, but didn’t ask. He gently checked Marty over, no doubt making sure that the teen could be safely moved. By the time he finished his very brief examination, a buckboard wagon was rattling up, driven by the sheriff himself.

“Can we move him into the wagon?” Doc asked when the medical doctor didn’t immediately react to it’s arrival.

“I think so,” Dr. Peterson said after a moment. “Very carefully. Will you give me a hand?”

“Of course.”

It took a few minutes to move Marty. He was thoroughly limp, a dead weight, and Peterson didn’t want his head to be jostled all that much. Doc wasn’t quite sure how this was entirely possible; buckboard wagons weren’t known for their smooth carriage. This problem was solved by both the doctor and the inventor climbing into the back with Marty, and the latter cradling the teen’s head on his lap, able to shield it from the worst of the turbulence on the trip.

By the time they reached Doc’s livery stable/home, word had spread and a crowd had already gathered outside the blacksmithing shop. Doc supposed he should have expected something like this -- Hill Valley was still a very small town, and just about everyone had gathered in the downtown area for the showdown earlier that morning. Word of the train hijacking, and then the accident, had undoubtedly reached a great many ears far quicker than a regular Monday morning would have. The inventor recognized many of the faces outside the barn, but Seamus McFly’s stood out the most to him. He looked worried, and the expression remained grave as he watched his future great-great-grandson being carried into the barn.

Dr. Peterson nodded to the large double bed, set apart in the more home-focused area of Doc’s business. “Can we set him there?”

“That would be best,” Doc agreed, thinking of the small cot that Marty had used for his bed during his stay. A real bed would be decidedly more comfortable and practical, though the scientist didn’t give any thought in that moment as to where he would sleep that night.

The two different doctors managed to carry the unconscious Marty safely to the bed, and settle him down on top of the covers. It wasn’t until the teen was out of his hands that Doc noticed a small crowd of people had trickled in after them. It included Clara, of course, looking younger than her years with her hair still spilling down her back, and a few tears on her pretty purple dress, as well as Seamus McFly, and a couple of the men who had been in the saloon during Doc’s all-nighter. The group hovered near the doors, clearly reluctant to intrude on what was a serious matter but worried enough that they wanted to be there. Only Clara stepped further into the barn, her pretty and worried eyes focused on Doc.

Once the teen was settled on the bed, the medical doctor began to gently undress Marty, removing his sarapé, boots, shirt, and pants, until he was clad only in his long underwear. The inventor stood uneasily at the foot of the bed, his gaze darting between Clara and his friend’s unusually still face.

When Marty was down to his long johns, Dr. Peterson began to conduct a quick but thorough examination with the aid of a lantern and a few tools in his black bag. He muttered his findings just loud enough to reach Doc’s ears.

“Right arm, not broken.... Left arm, a bit bruised.... Some scratches on the hands, nothing to be concerned over.... Pulse is strong and steady.... Legs and ankles seem to be fine.... No broken ribs.... Reflexes are normal....”

Doc nodded his head at each comment, the gesture done without any thought. Peterson saved his examination of the head wound for last, the doctor’s mouth twisting and contorting itself into a number of awkward poses as he worked -- very slowly and methodical. Doc glanced up at Clara during this time, noticing again her wide eyes and pale, worried complexion, and realized perhaps he should let the townsfolk what was happening -- so far. Might as well try and curb the rumors before they started. He stepped away from the bedside and walked towards the waiting group.

“The doctor’s having a look at him now,” he told them softly, once he had joined the crowd. For some strange reason, Doc had the urge to keep his voice quiet. As if it would disturb Marty, ridiculous as that was. “I know you’re all concerned -- I am, especially -- but so far he is finding nothing seriously wrong. No broken bones, nothing worse than bruises or scratches.” The scientist paused to look again at Clara. “He’s taken a hard blow to the head, though, and is still unconscious.”

There were a few sighs of relief from his report -- perhaps because the locals thought the scenario was far worse than this. Doc hurried ahead before they could ask any questions.

“I know that you’re all concerned, but I’d like to ask for some privacy right now. There was an accident on the rails, and I’m still a bit shaken up from that... from everything today.” Doc somehow managed a faint, wry smile. “And it’s not even noon yet.”

There were a few murmurs of understanding or apology. As people politely drifted away -- with a few pausing to offer food or drink or their prayers for Doc and “Clint” -- the inventor hastily added, “I will certainly let you know if and when things change, when there’s more news to share.”

Seamus McFly lingered behind until the others -- save for Clara, who had rightly presumed that Doc’s request had not included her -- had left, perhaps feeling more of a connection or concern with Marty’s welfare than the others. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Brown,” he said softly, his tone matching Doc’s. “What was it that happened? There be rumors flyin’ about town.”

The inventor had lived in 1885 Hill Valley long enough to be unfazed by the news. “There was a train accident of sorts,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to read all about it in the next edition of the newspaper. Ma--Clint was thrown from the vehicle.”

“And you?” Seamus asked. His eyes flickered to Doc’s forehead, and the aching lump that had formed there. The blood had stopped trickling out, but the inventor had no doubt that it had left a deceptively serious mess in its wake. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine once my friend is out of danger,” Doc said.

Seamus nodded once and took that as his cue to leave. “Maggie an’ I will be keepin’ him in our prayers,” he said on his way out the door.

“Thank you,” the scientist said. He followed Marty’s ancestor to the door, taking a moment to peer outside at the street.

“Emmett,” Dr. Peterson said suddenly from behind, startling the inventor. He turned around to regard the doctor, who’s face was carefully neutralized. “You’ll be relieved to know that I can’t find any signs of injury to Mr. Eastwood, beyond some bruises and scratches. The wound to his head is ugly, but I think a cold compress can cut the swelling down. His breathing and pulse both seem steady enough.”

“So what, then?” Doc asked. “When will he wake up?”

Dr. Peterson sighed. “It’s difficult to say,” he admitted. “It could be a couple hours. It could be tomorrow. If he hasn’t regained consciousness twenty-four hours from now, let me know.”

“Could he be in a coma?” Doc asked bluntly.

“It’s far too soon to think that,” the doctor assured him. “He has been unconscious little more than an hour, right? Keep an eye on him, and let him sleep this off. He’s young and in good health; I imagine that he will pull through fine. He’s quite fortunate to come away with nothing more than a concussion from the accident.”

Doc nodded once, though as far as he was concerned even that was too much. The doctor headed back to the bedside to collect up his tools, and check on the patient once more. Clara stopped him before he could leave. “Could you look at Emmett’s head?” she asked. “He was injured, too, in the accident.”

Dr. Peterson nodded in agreement, though Doc was less than thrilled by the prospect. “Miss Clayton is right, Emmett,” he said, noticing the expression that crossed the older man’s face. “You promised me yourself to let me take a look at that cut once I examined Mr. Eastwood.”

The inventor grumbled a little, but the look Clara gave him told him he’d better comply. It didn’t take the medical doctor very long to look at the cut, carefully clean it up, and give Doc approximately the same bill of health as he had for Marty -- scratches and bruises, but no serious injuries. He was warned to take it easy the rest of the day, though, and after another quick check on the teen, the doctor left.

Doc looked over to Clara the moment they were alone. She was staring at him, one hand to her mouth, her eyes filled with an expression the inventor couldn’t quite discern. After a moment she made her way across the room to where he was still sitting on the small couch near the foot of the bed. “Are you all right, Emmett?”

The question, in various forms, had been asked of him many times already that morning. But Doc treated the query from Clara as if it was the first time he heard it. “I’ve been better,” he said. “Physically, I have a headache, but it’s nothing that a little Tylenol wouldn’t cure.”

Clara blinked once. “What is Tylenol?”

Doc sighed inwardly, taking a moment to look around his 1885 home. It was starting to sink in a little that he was not going to be going anywhere for a while. Neither would Marty.

Maybe things aren’t as grim as they seem, he thought. Maybe once I look at the DeLorean I’ll find I’ll be able to construct workable repairs on it.

Even if that came to pass -- and Doc knew it was a big if, since the time machine was considerably more damaged now than it had been in the first place -- they would be there for a while. A few months, perhaps. Maybe a year or longer. Doc glanced at Marty on the bed, a part of him suddenly grateful for his currently unaware state. It gave him more time to figure out their situation, and conceive of a way to break the news -- especially if it was not good.

“Emmett?”

Doc blinked, turning his attention back to Clara. She sat down next to him on the couch, waiting, it seemed to the inventor, for something.

“Clara, I... what were you doing out there when the train derailed?” The question only now occurred to him.

“I had an epiphany,” Clara said after a moment. She sounded hesitant, almost embarrassed. “Emmett, I behaved terribly last night. I was... well, I was on the train to San Francisco when I realized how wrong I had been -- and how much I... love you.”

Doc raised his eyebrows, ignorant of the pain this provoked in his cut. “You... what?”

Clara boldly lay her hand on top of his in his lap. “I love you, Emmett Brown,” she said softly.

The inventor’s mind locked up on those three uttered words. So much to digest this morning; how much more could one mind comprehend? “You love me?” he said, astonished.

Clara nodded. “You sound surprised,” she said.

Doc’s mouth had suddenly grown quite dry. He swallowed once before he answered. “I am,” he confessed. “I thought maybe, perhaps, you had feelings for me on some level, but I never dreamed--”

Clara raised her hand and placed her fingers on his lips, quieting his words. “Hush, Emmett. You are a kind, wonderful, caring, intelligent man. Any woman would be fool to brush you aside.”

Doc managed a thin smile. “Then I’ve met many fools in my time.”

“In the future?” Clara asked. The scientist stared at her a moment, almost afraid to answer that question based on her behavior the previous night. The schoolteacher seemed to sense those very thoughts and smiled gently. “I won’t slap you this time, Emmett, I can assure you. I’m dreadfully sorry about that. It was just such a fantastic story to accept.”

Doc looked at her hand resting on his. “What changed your mind?” he asked.

“That you were telling the truth?” At Doc’s nod, Clara blushed a bit. “Well, I didn’t entirely believe your story until I came back here to find you and tell you... well, that I loved you. You were not here, but I saw the small model over there.” She nodded to the tabletop model lying in plain sight that Doc had neglected to dismantle. “One of the small vehicles had the words ‘time machine’ printed clearly on it. And I couldn’t see how you would fabricate a story so elaborate that it would include a model in your home.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, with a little sigh. “I really should’ve taken that thing apart before I left.”

“But if you had, I would not have chanced to see it. It gave me a good idea as to where you were as well, with the little marked signs. How else did you suppose I found you?”

Doc lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt in the accident,” he said.

“Quite so,” Clara agreed. “I had just grabbed onto the back of the wood car when the locomotive put on a burst of speed. Had I not worn my gloves, I’m almost certain I would have lost my grip.” She paused. “What were you doing with the train? How did it involve this time machine you arrived in?”

Doc wasn’t quite sure how much to tell her. He didn’t fear that confiding in Clara would be his undoing -- Great Scott, she loved him! And he loved her, too! -- but there was simply so much to share. Better to just take it one question at a time. “Yes,” he admitted. “The machine needed to achieve a specific speed to induce the temporal displacement -- the time travel.”

“And you’re from a hundred years in the future?” Clara asked. “The year 1985?”

The inventor nodded, thoroughly confused. “How did you know that?”

“You mentioned it last night, when you came to bid your good-bye to me.” She smiled at him again. “A hundred years in the future! I imagine we must seem terribly backwards to you.”

“Not at all,” Doc said immediately. “If anything, I enjoy this time far more. People seem kinder and more accepting -- at least of me.”

“Are they not so in the future?” With another reluctant nod, Clara asked the inevitable. “Why?”

“Well... surely you’ve noticed that I’m not exactly... typical.”

Clara nodded once. “But that is what I love about you, Emmett. I’m not the picture of an ideal woman myself. If I had been, I wouldn’t be in Hill Valley right now. My family thought I was mad to come out here and teach in a frontier schoolhouse. But I knew I would simply go mad if I stayed behind in New Jersey and continued teaching in the girl’s academy. The East is such a stifling environment. But out here, anything seems possible!”

Doc smiled at her breathy and excited tone. He placed his free hand on top of hers, clasping it warmly. “Anything is possible,” he said. “I think that’s true regardless of where or when someone is.”

Clara smiled back at him. Doc leaned forward slowly, unable to help himself. She was so pretty sitting there. The schoolteacher closed her eyes, tilting her face forward--

“Excuse me, Emmett?”

Doc and Clara both jumped at the sound of the gruff voice. The inventor whipped his head around to see Marshall Strickland standing in the doorway. For a moment Doc thought he detected a glint of amusement in the other man’s eye, but in a blink it was gone -- if it had even been there in the first place. “Yes?” the scientist asked as he stood.

“Now that things have settled down, I’d like to speak with you,” the marshall said. “We can do it here -- no need for you to come by the jail. I need to know all the details of the accident. There is going to be an investigation, possibly federal.” Strickland sounded almost apologetic.

Doc glanced over at Marty, who was still out for the count. “All right,” he agreed, even as his mind struggled to weave together a cohesive, realistic cover story. Well, he had gotten almost accustomed to fibbing back here, and as a result thought he could do a convincing job of it.

Clara excused herself then, her composure swiftly regained. The marshall stopped her as she headed for the door.

“Miss Clayton, I’d like to speak with you as well. I understand you were the first to arrive at the scene after the accident?”

Clara hesitated before she responded. “Yes.”

The marshall stared at her a moment, waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he added, “Can you elaborate on that a bit? What did you see? Did you see the two men who hijacked the locomotive?”

Doc held his breath, staring at Clara, wondering how she was going to handle this. She looked at the inventor a moment, meeting his eyes, before turning her gaze back to the marshall. “I didn’t see anything,” she said. “I happened by just after it happened and saw only Emmett and Mr. Eastwood.”

The marshall looked disappointed. He turned his head back to Doc. “Explain to me how you came to be there,” he said. “Every detail.”

Doc shared with him his more detailed improvised story: That he and “Clint” had been in a hurry to meet an acquaintance in the next town over when they noticed the train being hijacked by two men. The inventor had quickly cut ahead and opted to use a “rail vehicle” that he had been working on for a few weeks in the hopes of stopping the train -- but the locomotive derailed, rather than stopping, and the two outlaws escaped. Doc felt rather self satisfied by his little tale, though there were some glaringly large holes of logic in it. Particularly regarding the device he had created to stop the train.

Marshall Strickland listened to the tale without uttering a word. When Doc concluded, the law officer asked a few questions of his own. “What made you believe that the train would use the unfinished track?”

“I didn’t know that,” Doc said. “But that was where I had stored the rail vehicle. It was my intent to push it along to meet the train. Ma-- Clint was in that when the derailment and collision occurred. He was thrown from the vehicle.”

“Then this rail vehicle you created was moving towards the train? It collided with it head on?”

“No, it was at rest. It’s job was to stop the locomotive.”

“Then why was Mr. Eastwood inside it during the collision?”

It was a very good question, but Doc was equally good at providing an immediate answer. “He hadn’t yet had the chance to get out. Things happened quite fast.”

The marshall made a kind of “Hmmmm,” noise. The scientist remained nonplussed, though. So long as he provided a story that sounded feasible, he couldn’t see how the man would accuse him of lying. Thank God he had thought to conceal his face and Marty’s with masks when they had “borrowed” the locomotive.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” the marshall asked after a moment of silence.

“Nothing I can think of -- but if something comes to mind I’ll let you know.”

“Please do. And you will do the same, Miss Clayton?” It was more a statement than a request.

Clara nodded once. “Of course,” she said.

The marshall left, then, though he looked far from satisfied. Doc breathed a sigh of relief at his departure. “I need to go to the crash site,” he said softly when Clara looked over at him.

“I don’t think that is a very wise idea, Emmett,” the schoolteacher said immediately. “The area is sure to be cordoned off as long as this accident is under investigation.”

“Yes -- but I need to collect the remains of the time machine. I shudder to think what might happen if it falls into the wrong hands. The technology is far beyond contemporary understanding.”

Clara blinked once. “Would anyone be able to use it, then?”

Doc shook his head. “I doubt it very much. I looked at it right before the others arrived, and it looks like the heart of the time machine -- the flux capacitor -- was damaged beyond repair. The time machine is not going anywhere.”

Clara stared at him a moment. “Then does that mean you’re trapped here?”

Doc sighed. “For the time being,” he said.

The schoolteacher sucked in a breath. “Oh, Emmett, I’m so very sorry!”

“It’s not a great tragedy,” the scientist hastened to assure her. “At least for me. I’ve been here nine months already. I was set on staying here permanently until I found out that Buford Tannen was going to kill me. And we averted that,” he added quickly, before the teacher could misinterpret the words. “I’m much more concerned with Marty remaining behind. He has family and friends back home -- and a girlfriend. They will notice his absence. And he’s very much a product of his times. I’m not sure how -- or if -- he’ll be able to adapt to a more lengthy stay in this time.”

Clara frowned, looking faintly confused -- but not by the inventor’s words, per se. “You mean to say you will not miss your own time at all? Surely you have family or friends there.”

Doc shook his head once. “No family. I was an only child, and my parents died quite a while ago. And Marty was just about my only friend.” He frowned a little, remembering something important. “And Einstein, of course. Einstein is my dog,” he added for Clara’s benefit. “Marty was going to take care of him, but now....” He was left with an uncomfortable sensation of guilt in his gut.

Clara stepped to his side and put a warm hand on his arm. “I’m sure that your pet will fare all right,” she said gently.

“Maybe,” Doc muttered, a bit more pessimistic. Einie had been left locked in the lab, after all. “But there is a greater problem to consider right now. I don’t belong here, in this time, and neither does Marty. Seamus and Maggie McFly are his great-great-grandparents, you know. My mother is a little girl in town, now. Sarah Lathrop. The risk of interacting in negative ways with history -- our family history, particularly -- is a very real risk.”

Clara simple stared at him. “Perhaps you might start at the beginning,” she suggested.

Doc blinked, not understanding the question. “At the beginning of what? My family history?”

“After a fashion,” Clara said. “I’m more intrigued by this idea of a time machine. How on earth did you make one? And why did you decide to visit this year?”

Doc waited until she had sat down again and made herself comfortable before he launched into that lengthy tale. More than once he saw a look of complete confusion in the schoolteacher’s eye, and was forced to backtrack to fill in what might have seemed like a gaping hole in her understanding. When he had finished, close to an hour had passed and Clara looked to be almost overwhelmed. The inventor left her side a moment as he checked on Marty. There had been no change in the teen’s condition. Doc freshened the damp rag lying on the ugly bruise, then returned to Clara.

“I imagine that there’s a lot to be confused about,” he said.

“Yes,” Clara said honestly. She put a hand to her head. “I don’t believe Jules Verne himself could create such a tale.”

Doc smiled ruefully. “The truth is stranger than fiction,” he said. He looked at the clock again, noticing it was almost noon. The entire morning had already passed by. “You must be getting hungry.”

Clara blinked. “Now that you mention it....” She turned her head to look at the clock the inventor was staring at and frowned. “Goodness! I didn’t realize it was getting so late in the day!”

Doc glanced at Marty again and sighed inwardly. There was nothing he wanted to do more than ask Clara to lunch. But he couldn’t leave his friend alone; what if the teen regained consciousness while he was gone? “You should go home and have something to eat,” he said. “The town is no doubt talking about how you’ve been holed up in here with me all day. Never mind that our interactions have been wholly innocent; they don’t yet know you.”

Clara frowned as she stood once more. “You need to eat, too, Emmett,” she warned, completely ignoring the propriety comment.

“Of course,” Doc said, fibbing. He was far from hungry, and he wasn’t sure how much food he actually had left in his home. “But I can do that here. I can’t leave Marty.”

Clara -- who’s mouth was opened a half inch, as if she was waiting to say something more -- abruptly closed her lips, her eyes darting to the bed. She nodded once, not arguing about the matter. “I’ll bring you something, then,” she promised, making her way to the door. “There’s no need for you to starve.”

“You don’t need to do that--”

“Nonsense -- I want to.” Clara’s tone and face softened as she looked at him, three steps away from the door. “I love you, Emmett Brown.”

Doc couldn’t keep the smile from blossoming across his face at the words. “And I love you, Clara Clayton,” he said softly.

The returned phrase brought a glow to Clara’s own face. Her cheeks grew rosy in color and dimpled in a warm smile. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said, turning to leave the shop.

* * *

Clara kept her promise -- about an hour after her departure, she returned, having changed into a smart new dress and pinned her hair up into a more proper and refined style. She also carried with her a hamper filled with food -- though she admitted that it wasn’t all her doing. “When people heard that you hadn’t anything to eat, they were quick to bring me something to give to you,” she said. “They’re really being quite kind; no one wanted to disturb your vigil, so they allowed me to bring it in.” She smiled as she set the basket down. “The only thing in here that I made was the sandwich.”

Doc couldn’t help feeling a rush of surprised gratitude at the spread that the schoolteacher had lugged in. There was a thermos of coffee; another of tea; a loaf of bread; some butter; some jams; an apple pie; and the sandwich. “Wow,” he said. “That’s very kind of them. In the future,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t think anyone would be so thoughtful -- and definitely as respectful. This is what I love about this time, these little things.”

The couple had lunch together at one of the worktables Doc hastily cleared off. As tasty as the food was, eating was somewhat of an effort. Stress over Marty’s condition, and the time machine lying in plain sight in pieces, weighed heavily on him. There was also the barrage of questions Clara had for him, which he couldn’t help but answer immediately. He supposed a part of him was happy to be talking honestly about such things -- his origins, in particular -- after months of being shady and vague about his past, and having to keep it all to himself. His audience was also fascinated by the stories, and offered a perspective to things that was fresh and surprising.

The afternoon wore on. Marty’s condition remained the same -- though he did finally, around three, stir briefly enough to move from lying flat on his back to lying his side. Clara darted out a few times during the course of the day, bringing news to the saloon -- which, while no place for a lady of the schoolteacher’s stature, was just as effective as posting it under the masthead of the Telegraph -- as well as the kind wishes and food from various townspeople. She also brought news -- or what little news there was -- about the train accident and investigation. The town, Clara had mentioned, was abuzz with all the events of the day -- Clint Eastwood standing up to Buford Tannen, and the arrest of the outlaw; the train being hijacked by two armed outlaws; and the train derailing and injuring Mr. Eastwood. Doc briefly wondered how much talk would have been spawned had things gone according to plan, and the locomotive crashed into the bottom of the ravine.

By the time supper came along, the inventor was unable to sit still, his anxiety worse than it had been in the morning. Marty was still out, and the problem of the time machine wreckage simply gnawed at him, growing worse as the day wore on.

After another shared meal, Clara began to reluctantly gather her things together to go back home. It wouldn’t do for the new schoolteacher to have spent the night with the blacksmith, never mind the current circumstances. Doc thought they were fortunate enough that no rumors had spread about the town when he had ended up spending the entire night at her place Saturday night, after the town festival. Never mind that things had been wholly innocent -- they had simply talked about a number of important things, ranging from Jules Verne and science, to stories of childhood mishaps, and, well, exchanged a kiss or three. Hill Valley was a tiny town, now, and word almost always got out about who was out with whom.

Doc watched her prepare to leave with an odd feeling of impending sadness at the separation. “I’d like to escort you home,” he said, quite sincerely. “But--”

“You must stay with Marty,” Clara said, easily adapting to the use of the teen’s real name. “I understand completely. I’ll be fine, Emmett. It’s a brief trip, and it will be light for another hour or so.”

Doc sighed as he sank down on the edge of the couch. “Yes, I suppose it will.” The words came out devoid of any expression. Clara looked troubled and sat down beside him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Marty will be fine,” she said. “He just took a bad hit to the head. The doctor said that he would wake on his own.”

Doc nodded his head once, not feeling apt to go into great detail on the other things concerning him. Marty’s health was simply one of many things.

The schoolteacher continued to stare at him. “Emmett, perhaps I could stay here tonight,” she said softly. “Surely people would not think anything... inappropriate would happen. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Doc smiled at her concern and picked up her hand from his shoulder as he slipped his other arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. “People would still gossip,” he said.

Clara smiled widely at his touch. “Well, if someone sees you sitting like this with me, of course,” she said. “But under the current circumstances, I think you are allowed some leeway -- with the town,” she added quickly, lest her words be misinterpreted.

Doc allowed his face to drop into an expression of mock disappointment. “Oh really, now? Not with you? That’s good to know.”

Clara blushed, then boldly planted a quick kiss on his lips. Before Doc had the chance to react, she had pulled away and was on her feet. “I suppose I should go,” she said, almost remorsefully. “You’re correct -- people would talk. Do let me know if anything changes tonight.”

Doc nodded, not without some disappointment at her abrupt change of heart. “Of course.” He stood to walk her to the door. “It’s not just Marty’s condition that’s really nagging me,” he confessed, changing the subject slightly. “It’s the remains of the time machine. Those need to be collected -- soon. I can’t have parts of devices that have yet to be invented floating around.”

Clara pursed her lips together a moment. “Yes, I can see why that is necessary. But I don’t see how likely it is that you can visit the area and remove anything. From what I understand, men are still out there investigating the accident.”

Doc sighed again. “Exactly,” he said. “And the longer the parts are out there, the more difficult they may be to thoroughly retrieve. They could be removing things right now as we speak. There’s got to be a way to get them back sooner than later....” He looked up at her as an idea began to spark. “They wouldn’t guard the site all night, would they?”

Clara looked thoroughly baffled by the query. “Well, I -- I don’t know. Perhaps they might -- yet I don’t understand why the marshall would spare the men when the train is not going anywhere.”

The inventor smiled suddenly. “No, it isn’t. But it’s not out of the realm of possibility to think that maybe the time machine can. If I went there late tonight, after midnight, I could quite likely collect the remains.”

“And if you were caught, you might be in a mess of trouble,” Clara said immediately.

Doc wasn’t bothered by the idea, though he did find her concern touching. No one else -- save for maybe Marty -- had ever worried about his safety for a very long time. “I’ve courted worse disasters in my life, and lived to tell the tale,” he said.

Clara looked curiously at him, no doubt wondering what exactly he meant by that. “Nevertheless, Emmett.... What about Marty? You would dare leave him alone here?”

“He wouldn’t even be aware that I left,” Doc said. “It wouldn’t take too long to take care of things.” He nodded once, mostly to himself. “Yes, I think this will be the best course of action.”

The schoolteacher stared at him a moment, not moving from where she was standing near the door. “Well, then... let me go with you,” she said. Doc opened his mouth to shoot that idea down, but before he could project even a whisper of air, Clara was already speaking again. “If I were to come with you, we could collect the artifacts much quicker. Two sets of eyes are much better than one.”

Doc grimaced; she had very good points, which he hated to admit. “I don’t want you to get involved in this,” he said.

Clara drew herself up, her gaze steady as she stared him dead in the eye. “I already am,” she said softly.

That was another excellent point. “It’s risky,” Doc warned, wanting her to understand just exactly what she was offering.

“I am aware of that,” Clara said, rather primly. “Now, what time now should I be ready?”

The scientist stared at his love for a moment, admiring her spirit. “Midnight,” he said. “I’ll come by your cabin. And wear dark clothes.”

Tuesday, September 8, 1885
12:07 A.M.

Doc kept himself deliberately busy in the six or so hours between Clara’s departure and his illicit rendevouz with her. One activity that he took care of immediately was dismantling the tabletop model, successfully erasing any evidence of it from his home. He ventured a few looks outside, every time he heard vehicles or horses pass the stable, hoping to see the sheriff or marshall or some of the other men that he had noticed at the crash site coming back into town. And near eleven, when it was apparent that Marty was more likely than not going to remain unconscious for the next several hours, he wrote a very brief note to the teen in case he should chance to waken: Do not move -- I will be back shortly.” Knowing Marty, that advice would be ignored, but it was the best he could do, short of having someone keep an eye on him. And that would be much more of a bother.

Doc frowned as he set the note down at the bedside. Marty was curled up on his side, facing him, and the bruise looked uglier than ever. Efforts to keep something cool on it were mixed; every time the teen shifted in his sleep-of-the-dead, it knocked the compress off the wound. The inventor once more picked up the washcloth, lying on the covers near Marty’s hand, soaked it in the water, wrung it out, and placed it back on the teen’s forehead. Marty grimaced a bit at the touch of the cool cloth, then his expression once more slackened into the semi-peaceful, very still one that told Doc his friend was still quite far off.

His mind couldn’t help worrying over the matter as he hitched Newton to his buckboard wagon, and headed for Clara’s cabin. With transportation being the way it was now -- no small feat, in short, and slow -- he arrived a few minutes past the witching hour. Clara was ready and waiting; she walked out to meet him before he could dismount from the wagon, a dark shadow on the moonlit landscape around them. She had taken his earlier request to heart, her dress black with a high neckline and long sleeves, and a dark knitted scarf thrown over her naturally dark hair. For his part, Doc had found the darkest clothes in his wardrobe, and bundled his white hair -- which stood out like an beacon on nights like this, catching the moonlight all too easily -- under a dark brown hat. He wore gloves on his hands, which aided in keeping them warm on this late summer night, and would protect his skin from being sliced on any sharp metal edges of the wreckage. Clara had nothing on her hands, and Doc took a moment to impart his advice to her so she could grab a set before they set off for the wreckage site.

They didn’t say a word on the drive, the only sound the squeak of the wagon axles and the steady clomping of Newton’s hoofs. This was not by accident; the inventor had advised quiet on the trip, the better to hear things around them. Under his seat he had brought along his modified Winchester -- not for protection against any person as much as the wild animals that roamed the outskirts of Hill Valley at this time. Fortunately, he heard and saw nothing particularly alarming.

Near the site, Doc pulled his horse to a stop. “I’m going to walk ahead, to see if the coast is clear,” he said in a whisper. “I want you to wait here with Newton, and if I don’t come back in half an hour, drive back to your cabin. My rifle is under the seat.”

Clara frowned, the expression clearly visible. “You expect me to abandon you?”

“No -- I expect to come back. This is simply a precaution that should protect you. I don’t want you to get into trouble. You haven’t even taught your first class yet, after all.”

Clara continued to look slightly unhappy. Doc gave her a smile as he climbed down. “I expect to be back in about ten minutes,” he said. The schoolteacher bobbed her head in a nod.

Doc walked briskly to the crash site, his eyes darting back and forth to constantly survey the surroundings. He was surrounded by quiet, and could detect no voices or any other sound of life. As he grew within sight of the rails, he slowed, moving parallel to the line a couple dozen feet away. When he saw the dark outline of the steam locomotive, he stopped, straining his ears for sound and his eyes for movement. There was nothing. It seemed deserted.

Of course, it could be under hidden surveillance.

Doc took a deep breath, then walked over to the wreckage. His nerves were decidedly on edge He made it all the way to the train -- and nothing happened. No cry split the thick silence, and there was absolutely no sign that there was anyone lingering around nearby. Just to make sure, the inventor walked over to the sad remains of his time machine and collected the Mr. Fusion unit that had broken off. He tucked it under his arm and walked back to where Clara was anxiously waiting. No one stopped him.

“It’s clear,” he murmured to the schoolteacher as he pulled himself back into the buckboard seat, dumping the remains of the fusion generator into the back. “Grab the smaller pieces first, the ones that will be easy to carry. Hopefully we can get the time machine itself another time; I don’t think we can manage it this evening.”

“It won’t concern you that it’s left out?” Clara asked as Doc took the reins from her hand and urged the horse forward.

“Not as much as the other devices. I have an idea, anyway....”

Clara looked at him curiously, but he didn’t elaborate at the moment.

Doc wanted to spend as little time as possible at the site, collecting the parts. He expected it might take an hour, possibly two, between the darkness and Clara’s possible confusion. The schoolteacher surprised him, however. Though she was baffled more than once whether or not something belonged to the DeLorean or the train -- the inventor wanted to leave behind the train wreckage -- she had a good sense of what belonged and what did not. In an hour, most of the DeLorean’s easily moved parts were piled on the back of the now-sagging buckboard. The DeLorean itself would require another trip to retrieve it, and that plan couldn’t be put into motion until at least the following day. Doc did take the time to remove the flux capacitor and the time circuits from the inside of the car, however; he didn’t want people getting a good look at those specific devices, and the labels on them.

No one came by while they were working. Nevertheless, Doc made sure to tuck in a couple horse blankets over the parts on the back -- just in case. By the time he dropped Clara off at her cabin, the night was more than half over. He dismounted the wagon to help her down, and walked her to the door.

“I must say, this has been one of the most unique outings I’ve ever been on,” she said. “You really know how to entertain a woman.”

Doc almost felt embarrassed, though her tone was light and cheerful. “I did warn you ahead of time....”

“Yes, you did. And the danger is what made it so exciting.” The scientist saw the flash of her teeth as she smiled widely. A moment later it disappeared, leaving her face little more than vague shadows in the awning above her porch. “I’ll come by tomorrow, Emmett -- if that’s all right with you,” she added hastily.

Doc smiled. “I’m looking forward to it already.”

They stood for a moment, in a silence that felt weighty. Doc could feel his skin prickling all over, from anxiety more than anything else. He knew that something still needed to be said -- or done -- before he could leave. But why did he suddenly feel paralyzed and unable to move? Why did he have to feel so awkward and... well, inexperienced... around Clara? It was ridiculous; he was sixty-six years old, now, and--

Clara stepped close to him and kissed him gently on the mouth. Doc didn’t react immediately, his mind simply frozen from both shock and pleasure. Clara leaned back after a moment. “Emmett? Are you all right?” Her voice was a bit confused and nervous. “I--I didn’t mean to be so bold. I hope I didn’t offend you or--”

Doc wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, kissing her back as his answer.

How long their good-bye went on, the scientist was not able to guess. Eventually the sound of a animal’s howl broke the mood -- and reminded Doc of the late hour. He pulled away from Clara, reluctantly, after giving her a final squeeze. “I need to go back, now.”

“Of course,” Clara said, her own reluctance shining through in her voice. “Good night, Emmett.”

A final kiss, and she vanished inside her house. Doc lingered for just a moment on the porch, pleasantly tingling from head to toe, then turned away and headed back to Newton and the wagon. The horse nickered softly as the inventor climbed into the seat, as if he was complaining about the long delay. Doc grinned as he started for his place, his mind recapping the sweet moments on the porch, elated.

“Who would’ve thought?” he murmured softly, half to the horse, half to himself. “I think I have what Marty would call a girlfriend!”

* * *

As expected, Doc made it back to the livery stable without a soul seeing him -- and found Marty still in his stupor. Feeling considerably more concern for his friend now that he had a better handle on the time machine problem, the inventor found the idea of sleep a ridiculous goal. He had been up all night already, the previous evening, as well as the one prior to it that he had spent with Clara, and had endured a more than strenuous day -- but though his body ached with exhaustion and stress, his mind was racing too much to realistically attempt repose.

At four in the morning, after he had unloaded all of the time machine’s parts from the wagon and stowed them temporarily out of sight in an empty horse stall, he finally collapsed in an armchair near the bed, the dreamy feeling that had followed him from Clara’s house evaporating under the weight of a steady stream of worries and what ifs. What if Marty failed to regain consciousness? What if Clara’s presence in Hill Valley -- which wasn’t so before Doc had saved her from the ravine accident -- changed history? Or what if he seriously changed history -- particularly his history -- by living in the past? And was there a way, somehow, to get back to the future?

Somehow, even occupied by these worries, Doc dozed off. His anxiety wasn’t left behind; he was on the train again, reliving the disaster that had caused the derailment. The steam train moving at a sickeningly fast pace -- creating the illogical fear of, What if temporal displacement occurs before I can reach the DeLorean? -- when he felt something touch him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes abruptly, startled, and blinked several times. It took his eyes and mind a moment to focus on the concerned face of Dr. Peterson hovering above.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Emmett,” he said immediately. “I wanted to check on Mr. Eastwood. I hadn’t heard anything in town; has he woken up yet?”

Doc sat forward, the back of his neck aching hotly from a few hours asleep in the chair. “Ah, no,” he said, clearing his throat as he looked at Marty’s still form on the bed. “Not at all.”

The doctor frowned, his brow furrowing, and turned to look at the patient. The scientist rubbed his own forehead, his bruise from the crash throbbing faintly. He felt terrible -- worse than before his nap of (he checked the clock nearby) approximately four hours. He could go long hours without sleep in moments of stress or when on the verge of a scientific breakthrough -- but usually when he ran out of steam, he would crash hard, sleeping for up to eighteen or twenty hours before feeling back to normal. Four hours wasn’t going to cut it, and his body was keen to remind him of this fact. He felt dizzy as he leaned forward in the chair, cradling his aching head in his hands and closing his eyes against the too-bright shafts of sunlight streaming between the cracks in the barn’s walls and ceiling.

“I’m concerned about his condition.”

Dr. Peterson’s voice broke into Doc’s attempted ignorance of reality. The inventor raised his head to look at the doctor, who’s brow was still wrinkled in concern. “He should be awake by now. It’s possible he sustained more damage than I first thought.”

Doc swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “Has his conditioned worsened since yesterday?”

“No -- not that I can tell. But he should have regained consciousness by now.” The doctor sighed as he glanced at Marty, the sound one of concern. “Keep a very close eye on him. Let me know if his breathing changes or anything of that sort. And if he wakes up, I want to know immediately.” Dr. Peterson put his hat on as he stood from the bedside. “I’ll come by this evening to have another look at him.”

Doc found the presence of mind to nod at this, though his brain suddenly felt incredibly full and overloaded. “Thank you,” he murmured.

The scientist remained where he was for a few minutes after the physician left, feeling drained in both body and spirit. The sound of a knock at the door to his shop finally drew his attention away from his friend on the bed. He stood, trying to smooth his unruly hair and wrinkled clothes, expecting it to be Clara on her promised visit.

“Yes, come in,” he said.

But instead of Clara, a small woman with ash blond hair walked in. She smiled shyly at Doc, looking embarrassed. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Brown, but... well... were you taking on any business right now?”

Doc blinked. “Business?” he echoed.

The young woman looked even more flustered. “Well... yes. Our horse threw a shoe two days ago, and I’m afraid if we wait any longer he might grow lame. Could -- I mean, would it be much of a bother if I could trouble you to shoe him? I don’t want to impose on you right now, but--”

“Of course,” Doc said. Yes, he was the town’s only blacksmith, after all. He had been lucky he’d had Monday off. Typically that was one of his biggest days of business, since working on Sundays here was considered off limits -- and horses didn’t stop needing shoes and wagons didn’t stop breaking down simply because it was the sabbath day. Doc actually didn’t mind the enforced day off once a week; it gave him time to pursue his other projects and interests.

The woman -- who looked vaguely familiar, though Doc couldn’t immediately recall her name -- smiled at him, suddenly more at ease. “So may I bring him in, then?”

“Yes, by all means.”

Clara appeared minutes after the blonde left, as Doc was trying to stoke the all-but-dead fire. She looked tired and worried -- perhaps she had heard the latest news from the doctor. “Good morning, Emmett,” she said. “Did you get any rest?”

The inventor hesitated a moment, wondering if he should fib. In the end, he decided not to; even if he tried, he had a feeling Clara would see through the lies. She had that kind of perception. “No,” he said. “Not much, anyway.”

Clara nodded once. “That makes two of us, then. I take it that Marty is not doing any better?”

Doc didn’t trust his voice, shaking his head once in response. Clara sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Perhaps things will change by the end of the day.”

Doc was feeling unusually pessimistic. “Maybe,” he said. “The doctor isn’t too sure. Here, can you hold this for a moment?”

Clara came over and accepted the billows from the inventor’s hand. “You never know, Emmett,” she said. “There are a number of people praying for the both of you now.” She promptly changed the subject before the inventor could think of a response to that. “Are you working today?”

“Well, I can’t not work; too many people need my services. And it’s all right. I’m better when I’m busy.”

“But you look exhausted. You should get some rest.”

Doc appreciated the concern, but not the words; it sounded suspiciously like nagging. “I’ll rest when I can,” he said, a bit abruptly. “I have far too many things on my mind at the moment to attempt sleep.”

Clara stared at him a moment, pressed her lips together, then looked down at the glowing coals. “I’ve got a few errands to run this afternoon in town,” she said a moment later. “I’ve been told school will begin on Thursday. It was supposed to start Monday but that was before I, ah, handed in my letter of resignation.”

Doc looked at her with such surprise that she blushed. “Well, I was leaving town when I heard the men on the train talking. I didn’t expect to be persuaded out of my decision. Fortunately, the superintendent had not yet recieved my letter and I was able to keep my job without any fuss.”

“Yes, well, we had been searching for months for a teacher....”

“So I’ve heard. Is there anything that I can get for you?”

Doc thought a moment, then shook his head. “I think I’m fine. Thanks for the offer.”

Clara smiled as the inventor took the billows from her hands. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back for lunch,” she promised.

The schoolteacher had hardly left before another local came by to tentatively query Doc if he was working today. The scientist told them he was, and then realized that he might as well open his doors to show the town that they had nothing to fear in asking for his help. One of those who strolled in an hour or so later was Marshall Strickland, providing Doc just the opportunity that he had desired for a private word.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I, Emmett?”

“No,” Doc said, pausing in his hammering for a moment to greet the lawman. “Did you have more questions?”

“Just a few,” the marshall said. He glanced about the room, his eyes coming to rest on the lump that was Marty in the bed. “Mr. Eastwood hasn’t woken up yet?”

“No,” Doc said flatly. He had already heard the question a few times, from some curious locals. He was sorely tempted to erect some curtains around his living area, to shield poor Marty from the prying eyes. Creating a barrier to separate his so-called home life from his professional life had never been an issue before, living alone, but now....

Strickland frowned a moment, staring at the teen, then turned back to the inventor to get to the heart of the matter. “They’ve decided not to press charges against you for the accident,” he said.

That got his attention loud and clear. Doc stopped what he was doing and stared at Strickland, not sure if he had heard correctly. “What?”

“The judge decided not to press charges. I explained yesterday that there would be an investigation -- and it is still ongoing, of course -- and that there existed the possibility that you may be blamed for the derailment of the train.”

Doc felt sickeningly cold for a moment. “I see. But they decided to not press charges?”

The marshall bobbed his head once in a nod. “Hubert had a bit to do with it,” he said, citing the mayor, Hubert Parker. “Figured it was the least he could do for you considering Mr. Eastwood’s condition -- and the fact he helped get Buford Tannen behind bars.”

“Well, that’s very kind of him,” Doc said. He made a mental note to thank the mayor personally next time their paths crossed.

The marshall clearly had come for more than just that announcement. “Seeing that it was your vehicle that derailed the train, you’re going to be the one who needs to remove it from the site,” he said. “The county is going to give you a week to take care of it.”

This was better news than Doc could’ve hoped for; it had been his plan to ask the law officer for that very permission. “Really?” he said mildly, his voice carefully poised to not betray his true feelings on the matter. “Well, that sounds fair enough. I was hoping to get the remains back.”

“It’s your personal property,” the marshall said. “But as such, you will need to make the plans to remove it.”

“Of course. That won’t be a problem at all.”

“Good to hear.” The marshall turned back towards the door. “I’ve got to check on the investigation. Let me know when Mr. Eastwood wakes,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“I’ll alert Chester in the saloon the moment there’s any change,” Doc promised.

With the weight of the DeLorean’s remains off his mind -- and apparently no one had noted or cared about the missing parts Doc and Clara had picked up the previous night, as the marshall did not mention a word about it -- Doc was able to dedicate all of his spare thoughts to worrying about Marty. Clara was as good as her word, returning with lunch for the scientist. But even she could tell that his mind was distant, and left him alone to prepare her lessons for the first day of class. She would come back around six and fix him supper, she promised, and Doc was too distracted to think of telling her no.

Then, around five-thirty, as Doc was putting his tools away for the day, he distinctly heard Marty groan. The sound was so unexpected that he jumped, dropping one of his hammers with a clatter and missing his foot by mere inches. Doc hardly noticed the close call, his eyes fixed on the bed on the other side of the barn. There was movement, now.

He dropped the rest of the tools in hand to the floor with a clatter and hurried across the room as fast as he could, dodging various workshop paraphernalia. “Marty?” he called a few feet away from the bed.

The teen’s eyes were still closed, but he was clearly beginning to stir. He moaned again, softly, at the sound of Doc’s voice, one hand drifting from the bedcovers to his head. Doc reached for the rag draped over the side of the bowl, soaking it in the tepid water and ringing it out. He placed it on Marty’s ugly bruise -- and the touch of the damp cloth did it. The teen’s eyelashes twitched, and a moment later they parted.

“Marty?” Doc asked tentatively.

Marty blinked once, squinting, his gaze slightly glassy. “Doc?” he murmured, his voice emerging dry and cracked.

“Yes,” the inventor said, relieved that he was recognized. “How are you feeling?”

Marty’s hand drifted up to lightly touch the damp cloth on the bruise. “Head hurts,” he whispered. “What happened?”

Doc hesitated a moment before answering the question. He didn’t want to give Marty the bad news immediately. It was inevitable that he would find out, of course, but there was no need to dump it on him when he had barely awakened. He would tell Marty just as much as he asked, right now, and save the true bombshells for later. “There was a bit of a mishap with getting the DeLorean up to speed yesterday,” he said carefully.

“Yesterday?” Marty asked weakly.

“Yes, yesterday. You hit your head -- there’s a rather nasty bruise above your right eye. That’s why it aches. You’ve been unconscious almost two days.”

Marty drew in a breath, clearly taken aback by the news. “What’s today?”

“Tuesday, September 8th -- five-thirty-three P.M. And 1885, of course,” he added reluctantly, though there was no way he could conceal that fact from Marty. “You’ve been out since yesterday morning.”

Marty’s eyes flickered past the inventor’s shoulder to take in more of his surroundings. “Am I at your place?”

“Yes. We took you here after the, ah, mishap. Everyone was quite concerned about you and--”

“Emmett?”

Doc broke off mid-sentence, turning his head to see Clara standing a few feet away. She had snuck in unnoticed while he was conversing. “Is he awake?”

Doc nodded. “Just now. Can you get Dr. Peterson for me?”

“Oh, of course!” Clara set down the bag in her arms on the floor and hurried out, moving as fast as she could in her skirt. Doc turned back to Marty, who was clearly trying to see past the inventor.

“Who was that?”

Doc felt his heart momentarily flutter at the question; was Marty’s memory affected by the accident? “Clara Clayton. You remember her, don’t you, Marty?”

Marty blinked once, a strange expression fleeting across his face. “Yeah, I do. The schoolteacher.”

“Yes.” Doc felt immediately relieved. “Well, she and I are... I suppose we’re seeing each other, or whatever you might call it when two people are in love with one another.” He felt flustered saying the words, not used to the taste of them on his tongue.

Marty blinked once. “I thought you broke up with her,” he said.

Doc felt confused a moment -- then pleasantly surprised. So Marty must still have memories of yesterday morning. “No.... That was a misunderstanding on her part. She caught up with me immediately following the, ah, mishap.”

Marty started to sit up and almost immediately decided against it. He let his head fall back on the pillow with a pained wince, then closed his eyes and took a couple deep breaths. “What happened?” he murmured. “What’s this... this mishap?”

The question had been asked. Doc bit his lip, reluctant to answer but knowing that Marty deserved the truth. “The train derailed,” he said softly. “It knocked the DeLorean off the tracks. You were in the time machine at the time, and in the turbulence were thrown free and struck your head. I got the train stopped after a minute, and about then Clara arrived. It was she who got the doctor so promptly.”

“I--I don’t remember that. The accident.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Short term memory loss is common with head injuries. It took me a few hours to recollect exactly what had happened when I hit my head in ‘55 and conceived the flux capacitor -- and the evidence that brought me to that point was in my face.” He hesitated again before asking his next question. “What do you last remember?”

“Uh....” There was a long pause as the teen clearly thought back. “Did I face off with Buford Tannen in the street?”

“Yes. He was arrested and is in jail now, as far as I know.”

“And then....” Marty closed his eyes. “Did we go after the train?”

“Yes. Anything else?”

Another pause. “I remember giving Seamus my gun. That happened before we left town, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did.”

Marty opened his eyes slowly. “That’s all I remember,” he said faintly. “Do you think I’ll remember more later?”

“I don’t know. We can ask the doctor when he gets here -- but I think it’s encouraging you remember anything from that morning.”

Marty closed his eyes again and sighed, gently rubbing the unbruised side of his forehead. “I hope he has something for this killer headache.... It feels like someone used my head as a baseball.”

Doc reached over and lifted the rag, taking another look at the bruise. “You were unconscious for almost two full days,” he said again, frowning a bit at the colors displayed in the wound. The swelling did seem to be down, however. “It’s to be expected you’ll have a headache.”

Clara bustled back in, followed by the doctor right on her heels. “Is he... is he still awake?” the schoolteacher asked in between gasps, clearing winded from her haste.

“Yes -- and talking coherently,” Doc said. He stepped aside, allowing the doctor to squeeze in next to the bed. Dr. Peterson smiled down at the patient as he set his black bag down by Marty’s feet , near the baseboard.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Eastwood?”

“I’ve got the headache from hell,” Marty said, getting straight to the point.

Peterson chuckled, unoffended. “I don’t doubt that you do.... Will you follow my finger with your eyes?”

Doc joined Clara’s side as the doctor ran Marty through a few basic neurological tests. “How is he?” Clara murmured in his ear.

“He seems fine,” the inventor returned, sotto voce. “He even remembers everything until shortly before the accident.”

“Then he knows all about that?”

Doc glanced at his friend a moment, making sure he wasn’t trying to listen to their murmured conversation. The teen still seemed occupied by the doctor’s exam. “I don’t want to tell him everything right now,” he said quietly. “No need to overwhelm him. He knows about the derailment, but he is unaware of the degree of damage that the time machine has sustained. That will come to light soon enough.”

Dr. Peterson joined the inventor and Clara a few minutes later. He met Doc’s nervous gaze and smiled easily. “He’s doing fine,” he said. “I have no doubt that he will recover fully from this.”

Doc gripped Clara’s elbow for a moment, his relief so great that he felt weak. “Thank God,” he murmured.

“He should stay in bed a day or two more, and rest up until his headache is gone. Sleep will probably help him the most -- I think you should encourage him to rest. Now, if he’s hungry, I would start him out with some broth, or perhaps tea. Nothing too strong.”

“All right. Is there anything else?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll check on him tomorrow. Let me know if anything changes.”

Doc watched him leave, then realized he had one more obligation. He glanced at Marty -- the teen had closed his eyes again, and was gingerly adjusting the damp rag on his forehead -- then turned to Clara. “Will you stay here a moment while I run to the saloon?”

The schoolteacher’s eyebrows nearly leapt off her head. “Well, I suppose you might be entitled to a drink after all you’ve gone through...” she half murmured.

Doc smiled and shook his head. “Oh no no no, nothing like that. I just wanted to let Chester know about Marty. He’ll distribute the news in a very efficient, effective manner.”

“Oh. Well, then, of course. Take your time -- it will give me the chance to start supper.”

They exchanged a quick kiss as Doc prepared to go -- and, glancing over at the teen once more, he could have sworn he saw Marty staring at him. He blinked, only to see that his friend’s eyes were closed once more, and leaving the inventor with the vaguely certain feeling he had simply imagined what he saw.

* * *

Marty McFly’s head ached like nothing he had felt before. Hitting his head on Seamus McFly’s fence the week before was nothing compared to the way it was throbbing and hurting now. It was enough to make him wonder if the train had hit him in the derailment -- but it was difficult to do much reflection with the pain.

He did understand, however, that something had gone wrong with Doc’s plan; the train had pushed the DeLorean off the tracks. Doc seemed to be all right; it was the teen who had gotten hurt. But the town doctor had assured him he would feel better in a few days, and be fine.

So why did he feel like something was wrong?

Something is wrong, Marty thought, his eyes closed in the hopes of easing the sickening throb centered above his right eye. We’re not supposed to still be here; it feels like there’s a monster drumming from inside my skull; and Doc’s tangled up with Clara.

He opened his eyes for a moment -- just in time to see the inventor and the schoolteacher kiss. The sight made him feel funny, almost like he was witnessing something private and deeply personal. Something that he didn’t think he should be seeing, and he wasn’t sure Doc meant for him to see. He shut his eyes again quickly, trying to erase the image lingering on his eyelids. Marty kept them closed as he heard footsteps approach the bed.

“I’m going to visit the saloon to let the town know you’re awake,” he heard Doc said softly. “Clara will be here if you need anything.”

Marty thought about acknowledging that he had heard the words, but the last thing he wanted to do was be forced to make small talk with Clara. He opted to feign sleep instead, ignoring Doc’s, “Marty?” a moment later.

“Is he sleeping?” he heard Clara ask a moment later, whispering the question.

“I think so. Well, rest is supposed to help him the most. I’ll be back soon.”

There was the soft smacking sound that indicated another exchanged kiss. Somehow, Marty managed to keep a completely straight face and not grimace in disgust. He heard more footsteps as Doc moved away from the bedside and to the packed dirt floor, and then the faint sounds Clara made. The teen risked cracking his eyes open for a moment, his curiosity at her activities strong enough to make getting caught a worthy risk. Her back was to him as she stood at the stovetop nearby, pouring something into a pan. He let his eyes fall closed again -- it really did help his headache, marginally.

With nothing to look at, and very little to listen to, Marty’s mind drifted back, going over the last memories he had prior to waking in here. He remembered -- or thought he did -- the showdown with Buford Tannen in the main street of Hill Valley. He had pulled a trick from an old Clint Eastwood movie on the outlaw, using the door from a cast-iron stove as a bulletproof vest, and broken the Tannen’s hand. Buford had fallen into manure at the end... hadn’t he? Or was he getting that crosswired with Biff Tannen, Buford’s great-grandson? The teen frowned faintly, stopping the expression when it simply served to aggravate the pain in his head.

And then after that. He remembered giving his gun to his great-great-grandfather, Seamus, and the farmer quipping he may use it to buy a new hat. And then... and then, nothing; his memory ran into a black, blank wall. Straining to see past it simply made his head hurt worse, so he gave up. He turned his thoughts to the more upsetting development of Doc and Clara being together. It shouldn’t be like that, Marty thought, feeling woozy, now. Doc had no business getting involved -- falling in love -- with someone who wasn’t even supposed to be around now. All that talk about screwing up the space-time continuum, all his lectures about the danger to Marty the last several days -- it seemed to be forgotten now. Almost too easily....

In spite of the upsetting thoughts, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

When he woke again, it had gotten fully dark out. A lamp was lit on the table next to the bed, the wick turned down low. His head still hurt, but the ache wasn’t quite as sharp and profuse as it had been earlier. Marty turned his head, wondering at the time, and spotted Doc nearby. The inventor had moved the cot that he had loaned Marty the use of during the last week, and was now sleeping in it himself, a few feet away from the bedside. It had to be late, then; Doc could be something of a night owl.

Feeling stiff and uncomfortable on his back, the teen rolled onto his right side, gently wedging the damp cloth between the bruise and the pillow. In the course of his shifting, he noticed a glass of water resting on the table next to the lamp. He suddenly realized how thirsty he was, how dry his mouth and throat were -- and wanted nothing more than to have that water.

Marty lifted his head off the pillow, stretching a hand towards the water. The room immediately did a sickening tilt around him, and he groaned softly -- but pressed on. His fingertips touched the smooth glass, and he managed to slip a hand around the container. He brought it towards his lips, his hand trembling slightly, and gulped all the room-temperature liquid. It tasted incredibly good. But for a moment he felt ill, his stomach churning around the water, probably because he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since... Sunday night? Then, as he set the empty glass down, the slightly nauseated feeling vanished, replaced by an almost overwhelming exhaustion. Marty settled his head back down on the pillow and was asleep again in minutes.

When he woke next, it was to a steady, irritating sound that set his teeth on edge and simply irritated his ever-present headache. A kind of clang, clang, clang that went on without pause for a minute or so. Then a brief reprieve before clang, clang, clang again.

Marty dragged his eyes open, already annoyed. It was a new day, now -- sunlight was quite visible through the windows, and the cracks in the ceiling above. The bright light hurt his eyes, and nudged his headache up another notch. It still wasn’t quite as bad as earlier, however, and he was thankful for small favors. He looked around, as much as he could through a squint, and finally spotted Doc as the source of the auditory disturbance, hammering at something on the forge in his smithing area.

“Doc?” Marty croaked, in between a series of more clangs.

The inventor turned around, perspiration on his brow. “Did I wake you?” he asked immediately.

“You could’ve woken the dead,” Marty said. He tried sitting up for the first time since the night before -- cautiously and slowly. He felt lightheaded, the pressure in his head increasing for a nauseating moment... and then, as he settled himself back against the iron bars of the headboard, it leveled off and began to recede. He let out a deep breath, relieved.

Doc was staring at him, clearly worried. “Don’t push yourself too hard,” he warned.

“Sitting up in bed is not gonna kill me,” Marty said, a bit edgy. He reached up to gently feel the bump, hissing a breath through his teeth at the jump in pain the light touch provoked. The inventor was still watching him carefully, his noisy chore forgotten.

“Do you still have a headache?”

“Yeah -- but it’s not as bad as before. There’s nothing you have that can take the edge off?”

Doc set the large hammer down near the forge, walking over towards his stove and cooking set up. “Clara left a tea that one of the women in town gave her yesterday,” he said. “It apparently has medicinal properties, with willow bark as one of the ingredients. It’s a legitimet cure for minor aches and pains, a forerunner for aspirin.”

“But how bad does it taste?” Marty asked. He wasn’t really a fan of tea.

Doc raised his eyebrows as he grabbed a kettle from a hook on the wall. “Is that really so important to you?”

“No...” the teen decided after a moment, as his head gave another twinge. “I guess not.” He watched the inventor fill the kettle with water, then asked the question that had just now occurred to him, now that he wasn’t so groggy. “You said the train derailed yesterday.”

Was it his imagination, or did Doc stiffen at the question? “Yes,” the inventor said, his voice devoid of any inflection. “Although it would be two days ago, now, not yesterday.”

“So what made it do that?” Marty asked.

“I’m not sure,” Doc said, setting the kettle on the rangetop. “It happened right after the first log blew. Perhaps the shift in acceleration was too much for the contemporary rails to accept, or perhaps there was something akin to a rock on one of the rails, which caused the wheels to leave their rightful path.”

The teen’s head gave a throb at the long words Doc was using. Translating Docspeak was ten times harder when one was still recovering from a concussion. Marty got the gist of what he was saying, though. “So something on the rails made the DeLorean and train jump off?”

“Probably. I would need to have a closer look at the rails to see for certain.”

“How much was the time machine damaged?” Marty looked around the workshop, not seeing anything that looked possibly like a DeLorean sitting around. That was weird, in his mind.

Doc didn’t answer the question immediately, apparently too busy with stoking the stove. “It went off the tracks at approximately thirty miles an hour, pursued by a locomotive,” he said.

That didn’t answer the teen’s question at all. “Well, what’s that mean? Where’s the DeLorean, Doc?”

“It’s still at the accident site,” Doc said. “I need to bring it in as soon as possible. I haven’t had the opportunity yet.”

Marty guessed not, if the inventor had been keeping vigil over him. He felt a faint echo of guilt for a moment, but it really wasn’t his fault, this accident. “You’re not afraid someone will go off with it?”

“Not particularly,” Doc said. He gave the fire one final, hard nudge, then turned away from the range. “Clara and I collected the loose parts the night after the incident.”

Loose parts? That didn’t sound good. “So how long will it take before we can go home again?”

There was a rap on the door of the workshop. “Come in,” Doc called -- and was it Marty’s imagination, or did he sound almost relieved by this interruption?

Clara Clayton stepped inside, bearing what looked like a picnic basket. “Good morning, Emmett,” she said cheerfully, beaming at him.

Doc hurried over to meet her, a similar grin lighting up his own face. “I thought you had to work on your class plans today,” the inventor said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as he took the basket from her hands. Marty couldn’t help watching, fascinated by their interaction. There was something else, too -- a faintly weighted feeling tugging somewhere in his gut. He wasn’t given much time to really reflect upon it, however.

“I do -- but I thought you could use the company for lunch,” Clara said in response to the scientist’s statement. Marty only wondered at the time then, turning away from the older couple to look at the hands on the cuckoo clock across the room. It looked like it was a little after eleven. The schoolteacher glanced over at the bed and gave the teen a warm smile. “Hello, Marty. How are you feeling today?”

“Better, I guess,” he said, a little cautiously, deciding to forego the mention of his continuous headache.

“Good. We were very concerned about you. When you’re feeling better, I know that there are many people who would like to visit you.”

“Later,” Doc said, glancing at the teen. “The doctor wants you to stay in bed for a couple days. Until the headache goes away.”

Marty snorted softly. “That could be a while, at this rate.”

“The tea should help,” Doc said, turning back to look at Clara. A dopy, almost dreamy, look came back over his face. Marty was both amused and disturbed by that expression; he’d never seen anything quite like it on his friend’s face before Clara had showed up. And Clara stared back at him with an equally soppy look.

God, Marty thought, not for the first time the last few days. If Jen and I looked half as sappy around each other, no wonder my mom and her dad were freaked out.

The thought reminded him of his girlfriend, and how much he missed her. He hoped she hadn’t gotten shot or anything lying on that porch in that hellish Biff-ruled world. “Doc,” Marty said, interrupting the staring contest that the inventor and teacher were engaged in. “When do you think we can go back to the future?”

Clara’s gaze seemed to grow sharp at the question. She looked at Marty a moment, then back to the scientist, her eyes narrowed. For the first time, the teen wondered if she was going to be going with them. He had already proposed to Doc the idea before they tried leaving, but the scientist had been against it then.

Or maybe, Marty realized, only then, Clara was not aware of the time machine’s existence. “Doc, does she know about... how we got here?” he asked quickly, not quite subtle in his query.

“Yes, I told Clara everything,” Doc said.

Everything?” Marty asked, shocked in spite of himself.

“Yes,” Clara said, answering for the inventor. “I know how both of you are from 1985, and that the vehicle you were in was a time machine. It’s quite fascinating, I think.”

Marty wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he looked at Doc again. “You told her?”

“I trust her,” Doc said softly. “I shared the news with her Sunday night -- after you’d fallen asleep at the campsite, I went out to her cabin to say good-bye -- but she didn’t believe me then.”

Clara’s face pinked up and she cleared her throat nervously. “Yes, Emmett, and once more, I am terribly sorry about how poorly I treated you....”

Doc waved a hand, brushing aside her apology. “But you did believe me eventually, and that’s what really counted. She saw the table model and gathered where we would be heading Monday morning,” he added to Marty. “That’s why she arrived at almost the very moment of the accident.”

The teen’s head spun a little with all the information. He simply couldn’t get over the idea that Doc had shared all this with Clara, so soon. After all that talk about how knowledge of the time machine could be so dangerous, he had gone and told it to a woman he had known less than a week. Marty felt that heavy, sick feeling again in his gut. Something had changed since this accident with his friend, and the teen had the feeling that it was a permanent kind of thing. He looked at the teacher again, seeing her in a more threatening light -- and immediately felt guilty. He should be happy Doc found someone now, after all these years -- not wishing she had found herself at the base of the ravine.

Marty decided he really didn’t want to think about that now. “Is she coming back with us, then?” he asked as calmly as he was able.

“That’s a matter of discussion, still,” Doc said, rather vaguely. He headed back to the rangetop. “I imagine that the water’s probably heated enough by now for this tea. Clara, how exactly is it supposed to be prepared?”

The schoolteacher joined the inventor at the kettle. Marty watched as they bent their heads together and spoke in low voices, too softly for him to catch a word. Something was going on, now; he was sure of it. And he was equally sure that Doc didn’t want him to know about whatever it is. He felt annoyed, and that emotion only served to increase the pressure in his head. A few minutes later, the couple broke apart and Doc was bringing over a steaming mug of the medicinal brew.

“Here,” he said, passing it quite carefully to Marty. “It’s very hot; be careful not to burn yourself. Sip it slowly.”

Marty nodded as he held the mug by the handle, taking a cautious sip. The taste was bitter, but almost indiscernible below the scalding heat of the liquid. He coughed after the first try, wincing, then braved both the heat of the liquid and the bitterness to take more in. Curing himself of the headache was a much bigger priority to him.

As he was struggling to consume the beverage, Doc had turned his attention back to Clara and was speaking to her again in a low voice. His back was to Marty; the teen had a clear view of Clara’s face, however, and of her nodding with a serious face. Again, as much as Marty strained his hearing, he couldn’t catch anything of the conversation.

“Doc,” he finally had to say, interrupting him mid-murmur. The inventor turned around to look at him, an eyebrow arched. Marty had a moment of indecision -- what was he going to say? -- then decided he might as well be blunt. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Doc said easily. “I was just making arrangements with Clara for supper on Friday.”

Marty didn’t know which was worse -- that he was being lied to, or that really was the truth. He stared hard at the scientist, dead in the eye, using what little will he had to try and pry by look alone the news from Doc. The scientist, however, simply stared back at him.

There was another knock at the door. Doc turned away from the gaze to greet the newcomer. “Come in.”

It was the town doctor -- Marty thought his name was Dr. Peterson, only because he had heard it mentioned by Doc earlier. “Good morning, Emmett,” he said to Doc, first. “How are you today?”

People, Marty reflected, were definitely more polite here than back home.

“Fine, thank you,” the inventor said. “Mart -- ah, Clint seems to be doing well.”

The medical doctor looked at Marty, smiled, and nodded once. “Ah, so I see. That’s actually the reason I came by, just to check on him.”

The teen sighed inwardly, anticipating yet another round of questions and tests. He was not disappointed. Dr. Peterson finished his examination, such as it was, after a few minutes -- and about then, Marty could feel some of the tea kick in. His headache began to ebb a bit, which had the odd side effect of making him feel more lethargic, almost sleepy. He finished the last of the liquid, then settled back on the pillows as Dr. Peterson gave his assessment.

“You seem to be recovering quite well,” he told Marty, though frequent glances included Doc and Clara in the conversation. “Your head still hurts?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, that should pass slowly. You might notice you have more headaches over the next several weeks, as you are still recovering from your injury. Those should decrease over time, I think. But you need to relax -- I don’t want you doing any work for at least a week, and then take it lightly.”

Some of this sounded unduly paranoid to Marty, but Doc was nodding, almost as if he was in agreement with all of the instructions. “Thank you,” he said to Peterson.

“Let me know if anything changes, or if you have any questions,” the doctor said. “Otherwise I’ll take it that things are fine.” He put his hat back on and headed for the door. “Oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I’m not at liberty to say anything, of course, of Mr. Eastwood’s condition. Never mind that the whole town has been coming to me for answers. If you don’t mind sharing this news with people....”

“I’ve been letting Chester know the updates, when it is relevant,” Doc said, smiling faintly.

“Ah, a brilliant idea. Good day Emmett, Miss Clayton.”

Doc waited until the doctor had left before speaking again. He seemed to read the teen’s mind, as he immediately said, “Marty, he’s right, you know. You’ve got to take it easy for a bit.”

“Like I’ve not been doing that,” Marty muttered. “You’ve hardly let me sit up.”

“It’s for the best; you were unconscious almost two full days. It was a serious accident.”

Good -- they were back on that subject again. “Just how serious, Doc?”

“Serious enough,” the inventor said, vague once more.

Annoyance once more flooded through Marty, though an increasing fatigue was keeping a good pace to it. “I want to see the DeLorean,” he demanded, feeling fully entitled to the request.

“Soon,” Doc promised. “Once you recover more.”

Marty rolled his eyes. “Once I recover more,” he muttered under his breath. “Fine.” He rolled onto his side and pulled the blankets above his head, not wanting to deal with this mess anymore for a while. So Doc didn’t want to talk; fine. Maybe if he pretended to loose interest and go to sleep, he would say something to Clara and he could figure out what the hell was going on.

But after just a few minutes, of hearing only silence or low murmurs of voices, he didn’t have to pretend anymore. Still recovering from the concussion, and feeling the soothing effects of the tea, Marty dozed off once more.

Wednesday, September 9, 1885
4:37 P.M.

It was just a matter of time, now.

Doc sat in the workshop area of his home, staring at the glowing coals in the forge and thinking hard. Behind him, back in the more homey area of the stable, Marty was sleeping away most of the afternoon. Clara had departed after lunch to take care of the last minute preparations for the first day of school, and business had slackened a bit. Or, rather, Doc was putting off some of the work. Marty wasn’t out of it enough that he could ignore the clanging of the anvil required when shaping horse shoes, nails, parts, anything of the sort. For the first time in a couple days, Doc was left alone, and not spending the bulk of his time worrying about his friend; Marty looked like he was going to be okay.

However, he was beginning to worry about what he was going to have to tell the teen. Marty was clearly getting suspicious about the DeLorean’s condition, and Doc’s best efforts to conceal the ugly truth from him were not going to be acceptable much longer. Nor could Doc lie to himself that hiding the truth of the matter was best for Marty. Yes, dumping it down on him when he had barely awakened from his mini-coma was not a wise or kind idea. But he was out of danger for the most part now. There really was nothing more to be gained for verbal vagueness.

The scientist leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands as he watched the forge. He wasn’t expecting that the DeLorean would ever travel through time again. He needed to figure out what to do with the parts of the car once he retrieved it, hopefully tomorrow; they couldn’t be left lying around in a landfill. He was already uncomfortably aware that his presence in the past, along with Marty’s presence in the past -- and even Clara’s continuing life in the past -- could considerably endanger the future. Funny how that had never come up before, when he had intended to settle down in the old west permanently, and told Marty to leave him there. But Doc didn’t believe he had a choice at the moment when he had written the letter, and he didn’t want to have Marty risk not returning home on his account.

Of course, if the kid had gone back home in the first place, from 1955, Doc knew he wouldn’t still be alive. Still, Marty wouldn’t necessarily know that -- although even the inventor knew that was faulty reasoning. The teen probably wouldn’t have be home more than five minutes before rushing off to look up Doc in the history books, and discovering the bad news about his demise. And then be tempted to go back and sort it out.

There’s got to be a way out of here, Doc mused, tapping his finger against his chin. Maybe a time machine from the 1980s can’t be repaired with 1880s technology -- but perhaps a time machine could be created with 1880s technology. After all, the key is really the 1.21 jiggowatts of electricity. If I can find some way to generate that kind of power here, and an equally stable vehicle that can achieve eighty-eight, it could work....

And then what? He could send Marty back to the future -- but a project involving that kind of dedication and experimentation could take years. By that time the three people who did not belong in the past could create any number of havoc, history-changing events.

One problem at a time, Emmett, Doc told himself, determined to not become overwhelmed by it all. He couldn’t worry about what every interaction with this time period may do to ones down the line; not if he wanted to keep any shred of sanity. The scientist deliberately, with effort, tore his thoughts away from that potential pathway of neurosis and concentrated on the more pressing, immediate matter: breaking the truth of the matter to Marty.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, Doc decided, casting a slightly uneasy look over his shoulder to the lump on the bed.

Thursday, September 10, 1885
8:57 A.M.

Marty’s headache wasn’t as bad when he woke up the next morning -- of course, he had spent most of the previous day sleeping. It seemed to be the only thing he could do that helped quell the ache in his skull -- and it wasn’t as if trying to speak to Doc was very productive at all. The inventor seemed more concerned with feeding him lines than anything else, and Marty was sick of the whole charade. But at a certain point, after almost twenty-four hours of intermittent sleep and such, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He opened his eyes, finally, feeling warm beams of sunlight on his face, and looked around.

The place, from what he could tell, was empty.

Marty sat up slowly. He felt lightheaded for a moment, the ache in his head increasing before it leveled out and faded. Pleased by that, he pushed aside the bedding and cautiously swung his legs over the side of the bed. Another look around, but his first impression was not in error; Doc didn’t seem to be around at the moment.

“Doc?” he tried, just in case.

The snorting of a horse nearby was his only answer.

Marty stood slowly, anxious not to push things too far. He felt a little shaky and wobbly on his feet -- but he’d been lying in bed for, what, three days? Four? It was more than a little fuzzy for him. And aside from the tea that Doc had shoved on him the day before, he hadn’t had anything to eat since Sunday night’s campfire dinner.

Food. He suddenly felt so ravenous he was queasy. Marty took a step away from the bed, wondering if Doc had left any snacks out. He had this faint recollection that the inventor had an automatic breakfast cooking thing set up somewhere across the room. He headed in that general direction and found what looked like a piece of cold, half burned toast, and a single piece of bacon left behind. Marty took the toast, not caring that it resembled a fossil, and took a crunchy bite.

There was no warning prior to Doc’s entrance; one minute he was not in the stable, and the next he was striding across the floor, a couple packages bundled under one arm. He glanced over at the bed where Marty had been minutes before, then skidded to such a quick stop he nearly dropped the items in his hand.

“Yo, Doc,” Marty said, heading off the inventor’s confusion before it could fully set in. “Over here.”

Doc jumped and spun around at the sound of his voice, the packages finally working their way loose of his grasp and tumbling to the earthen floor. He stared at the teen a moment, bug-eyed, before the sight of him seemed to sink in. “Great Scott, Marty -- what are you doing out of bed?”

“I was hungry -- and calm down, I’m not gonna pass out or anything.”

Doc was staring at him with one of his scrutinizing gazes, not bothering to be subtle with his concern. He frowned faintly at Marty’s words. “You’re still pale,” he said.

“Yeah, probably because I haven’t had anything to eat since Sunday!” The teen felt inexplicably cranky. Not knowing what the hell was going on could do that to a person -- but at the moment, he had other things on his mind than the truth. “There’s got to be something here better than this cold toast.”

Doc’s eyes narrowed as he took in the said food, clutched in Marty’s hand. “There is,” he said. “Why don’t you get back in bed and I’ll make something.”

“I’ve been in that bed way too much,” Marty said. “I’d rather avoid it for a while.”

“How’s your head?”

“It’s fine, Doc.” Marty couldn’t keep the edge from his voice, and the scientist flinched a bit. He changed the subject to another pressing concern. “You don’t have a shower here, do you?”

“Just the tub.” Doc tilted his head in the direction of the device. “Did you want to use that?”

Marty hadn’t taken a bath since he was a kid -- but beggers couldn’t be choosers. “Well, I feel grimy all over. I’d like to use something and get out of this, uh, underwear,” he added, only then really noticing what he was wearing. Someone must’ve stripped his cowboy clothes off during his spell of unconsciousness.

“I’ll get the pump started, then. It’s a little noisy, but far less time consuming than doing it all by hand. Oh, and I got you some new clothes,” Doc added, handing him the bundled packages that he had retrieved from the ground.

“Does that mean we’re gonna be here for a while?” Marty asked, not bothering to open the parcels just yet.

Doc stared at him a moment. then sighed. “Sit down, Marty,” he said, his tone gentle. “We need to talk.”

Marty swallowed hard, suddenly feeling sick. Anytime someone began a conversation with “we need to talk,” bad things would always happen. No one ever “needed” to talk when the news was good. He sat down on the edge of the pale pink couch nearby, bracing one hand on the arm of the furniture. “What’s up?” he asked lightly.

Doc pulled up a stool and sat down across from him, leaning forward until no more than a foot separated their faces. “You know that the DeLorean sustained some damage when it went off the tracks,” he said, his voice eerily calm.

“Yeah, you said something about that earlier.” Now came the big question. “How much damage, Doc?”

“Well, the cowcatcher crushed the rear deck of the machine, destroying the Mr. Fusion, the circuits mounted on the back of the car, and shorting out a number of wires. The flux capacitor shattered from the turbulence, and the time circuits--”

Doc was getting into Science Lecture Mode. It was too much for Marty at the moment. “So, what’s this all mean? How long is this gonna take to fix?”

“Well....” Doc broke the eye contact for a moment to stare at the floor, and then at his fingers, braced together at the fingertips to create a triangle with his hands. “What it means,” he began, addressing the floor, and then looking up, “is that you’re stuck here. As am I.”

The words didn’t make sense to Marty’s ears. “Stuck here?” Marty repeated. “You mean until you repair the DeLorean, right?”

Doc cleared his throat, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else but the present moment. “No,” he said softly, his eyes fully focused on Marty’s now. “I can’t repair it with the contemporary technology. We’re both stuck here, Marty, without a working time machine.”

Marty was suddenly glad his stomach was empty. If there had been anything more than that bite of cold toast, he thought he would’ve lost it right then. As it was he felt dizzy, faint, and had to lean back in the couch.

“But,” Doc added, quickly, “I’ll have you know that I’m already working on something that should get us back to the future. It may take a while to build... a few years... but I will get you -- us -- home eventually. I promise.”

The inventor sounded completely confident in his vow, but Marty didn’t care. His brain was still stuck on the words a minute before. “What it means is that you’re stuck here.... We’re both stuck here, Marty, without a working time machine.”

“No,” the teen murmured, shaking his head as much as he could stomach with the still-present ache in it. “No, Doc, c’mon. Be serious. I can’t be here for God knows how long! What about my family back home? My life? Jennifer?”

Doc leaned forward. Marty’s mouth snapped shut, cutting off the rising volume of the words; it might be a bad thing if someone happened by and heard him shouting like that. The inventor stared at him, his face grave. “I’m very sorry, Marty,” he said sincerely. “I don’t like it any more than you do. The repercussions this could have on history alone are frightening. But you won’t be left to fend for yourself out here,” he added, addressing an issue Marty hadn’t even considered. “You can stay with me; the town already thinks we’re family in some capacity. I’ll take care of you; it’s the least I can do.”

Marty didn’t care if Doc was gonna throw him out on the street with no more than the current clothes on his back. That he wouldn’t have to worry about food, shelter, and finding a job in this time was the absolute last thing on his mind. “But my life’s in 1985, not 1885, Doc!” he said. The back of his throat burned with the threat of tears; the truth was beginning to sink in, as much as he wanted to fight against it. “I don’t want to spend a few years living in the old west -- this time period sucks! And, Jesus, my family is going to miss me--”

“Marty,” the inventor interrupted, something in his tone freezing the rest of the teen’s tirade short of his lips. Doc’s put his hand on Marty’s shoulder and smiled very faintly -- the expression not one of mocking or pleasure, but of confidence. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it -- and with your help, I think we’ll come to it sooner than later.”

Marty recalled how long it had taken Doc to come to the DeLorean’s “bridge” and blanched even more. “Oh, God, Doc, I can’t wait thirty years--”

“It will not take thirty years,” Doc said flatly. “It will take more than thirty days, yes, and I need to find a valid, realistic source of power to fuel both the flux capacitor and the time machine’s acceleration -- but I do not foresee this taking quite the same amount of time as the first machine did. I have a much clearer idea now on what I need and how to go about achieving it. And there will be two of us working on the new machine, not just me going at it alone. It’s too dangerous for us to remain here the rest of our natural lives. I won’t let that happen. If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.”

“Are you sure that you can’t get the DeLorean fixed?” Marty asked, even though he knew it was fairly pointless. If it was possible, Doc would definitely know. “You’re positive that it’s trashed?”

“Oh, yes. The technology doesn’t exist to repair it. I had enough problems before with the damage the bolt of lightning did to the car. Having a train basically crush half of the time machine is something I am not prepared to deal with. Not with the tools and means that 1885 offers. It would be a challenge enough in 1985.”

Marty sighed, letting his head fall back on the couch, his gaze on the overhead ceiling beams. His headache, which had been almost gone when he had woken that morning, began to creep back on him and he closed his eyes, wishing that he was anywhere -- well, anywhen -- else but here.

He heard the squeak of the stool as Doc stood. “I’ll get the bath run for you,” he said softly. “And when you get out I’ll have something hot cooked to eat. You’ll be all right, Marty.”

No, I won’t, Marty thought, willing with every nerve in his body that this would turn out to be some nasty nightmare. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. He just could not spend the next God knew how many years stuck in the past. In the freakin’ wild west! It had to be some kind of cosmic mistake or joke!

My family... Jennifer... my friends... my band... my music... my life! It can’t be on pause for that long! No way!

The sound of the water pump that Doc suddenly activated nearly sent the teen through the roof. The sound was just as loud and deafening as his “refrigerator” that Marty had seen demonstrated the previous week. The teen couldn’t resist opening his eyes and turning his head to watch the inventor as he stood next to the tub. Water was gushing in fast, and in just a couple minutes Doc was shutting off the tap, rendering a most piercing metal-on-metal noise that bothered the horses in their stalls nearby. They whinnied softly, stomping their feet.

“The water is heated with the help from a steam boiler that works to operate the refrigerator,” Doc announced as he stepped away from the tub, rolling his shirtsleeves back down. “Getting a perfect combination of water temperature to your tastes may be a bit tricky, but most people still have to heat their water by the bucket on a stove top now.”

“Lucky them,” Marty said flatly, getting up from the couch. He dragged with him the packages of clothes Doc had given him.

The scientist quickly pointed out where the towels and soap were at, then drew the privacy curtain he had rigged up around the bath area. Marty didn’t waste much time in getting into the water. It could’ve been warmer, but it also could’ve been worse. The soap that Doc used was like nothing back home -- and there was simply no shampoo anywhere. Apparently people used bar soap in their hair or something here.

After he had finished scrubbing and washing the dust, sweat, and grime off his body from the last week, he lingered in the tub, craving the little bit of solitude and privacy it provided. Doc was busy; he could hear him hammering something on that anvil again. Marty sank down in the water until it touched his chin, the high sides of the tub concealing almost everything from view. But even if he closed his eyes, he couldn’t pretend he was home, or anywhere near it. Things felt, smelled, and even tasted so unfamiliar here.

His lower lip shook as a parade of images ran through his head. All the things he would miss, big and small -- everything from his girlfriend; the new truck he hadn’t even had a chance to try, yet; fast food; Diet Pepsi; MTV; electric guitars; hell, electricity. He had barely survived a week in 1885; how could he survive a month? A year? A decade?

As isolated as he was, Marty couldn’t stand it anymore; Doc wouldn’t be able to hear him with that hammer clanging, anyway. He gave into the burning lump at the back of his throat, muffling his quiet sobs as best he could, allowing the full weight of his situation to crash down on him.

He was stuck here. For quite a long while. What the hell was he going to do?


To Be Continued....