Marty McFly stared up in awe at the lavish time machine which rested on the train tracks before him. A locomotive steam engine, circa the late 1800's, was the vehicle that Doctor Emmett Brown had selected to come back in to say his final farewell to Marty. Or at least, Marty was nearly certain it was the final farewell. A peculiar mix of gadgets and gizmos were affixed to every inch of the train, leading Marty to believe that Doc was either the most intelligent man in the world for having created such a device in a time period before electronics existed, or that the scientist had done some extra time traveling before visiting Marty this time around. The teenager hardly dwelled on this query as the scientist climbed back aboard the train and the doors snapped shut behind him.

Doc poked his head through the opened glass window and glanced back and forth at the exterior of the train, making certain that everything was in order. Marty pondered his next words for a moment, knowing that they would most likely be his last spoken to the scientist. Rather than some gushy and emotional statement, Marty simply called: "Hey, Doc! Where you going now? Back to the future?"

Doc couldn't suppress the devilish grin that flashed across his face. There was only one way to answer that question. "Nope," the inventor shook his head. "Already been there."

He gave Marty and Jennifer a short wave and the two teenagers returned the gesture. The inventor then slid the train's window shut and Marty and Jen watched as the train's wheels folded under the bottom frame of the steam locomotive and the train was propelled into the air, hovering above the tracks. The locomotive spun around and accelerated forward, then made another about-face before accelerating to eighty-eight miles per hour and disappearing in a flash of bright light and a booming roll, a pair of fire trails being left behind in the clear blue sky.

Marty gazed upward for a long moment as the trails faded away and everything grew awfully quiet. Then he turned his focus back to the framed black and white picture Doc had given him and read the inscription out loud: "To Marty. Partners in Time - September 5, 1885." Then he turned to look at Jennifer, a frown etched on his face. "Guess that's it."

Jen put her arm around Marty's shoulders and squeezed him close. "You going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Marty answered, looking around at the mess of DeLorean parts that were left spilled out around the train tracks and remembering his original intention in choosing to return to the site. "Let's get the boxes."

Jennifer hesitated as Marty returned to his truck and pulled out a folded box from the back. Then she hastened to follow him. "You want to talk about it?" she asked as she came to his side.

"Nah," Marty declined, stepping away from the truck and returning to the tracks. Jen followed. "You know, I kind of just want to forget about it."

"But Doctor Brown was your best friend," Jennifer objected.

"I know," Marty replied, opening the box and folding the bottom flaps down. "I just don't want to talk about it."

Jen watched as Marty crouched down and began picking up a few loose piece of mechanics and dropped them into the box. She went to his side and touched his back lightly. "But he was like your father."

Marty tossed another piece of equipment into the box, hard, refusing to look back at Jennifer. He didn't speak. Jen crouched down next to him and put her arm over his back. "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

Marty stood suddenly and carried the box closer to the tracks. "Just drop it, okay, Jen?" Marty pleaded. His voice wavered.

"Why?" Jennifer entreated, again coming to his side.

"Because ..." Marty said, bending down to pick up the large LED display to the DeLorean and toss it into the box. "Because if I talk about it I'm just gonna start getting all gushy. I just want to forget it, okay?"

"But--" Jennifer began again.

Marty spun around and faced his girlfriend. His face was twisted in a mix of grief and anger. "The Doc's gone. Okay? Is that what you want me to say? Jesus, Jen! He's gone and he's never coming back! Now you want me to bawl my eyes out, right? Cry over not ever seeing him again. I don't want to cry about it, okay? I just want to forget it."

Marty turned away from Jen, leaving her in state of shock and indignation. He waited for her to say something, but she simply stood where she was, her arms crossed. Marty slowly turned around and faced her again. "I'm sorry, Jen."

"I really think you should talk about it, Marty," Jennifer repeated. "It's not good to keep emotions bottled up inside you. And I'm probably the only one you can talk about it with anyway."

"You know I don't believe in that psychology shit," Marty said, walking past her.

Jennifer's ego was more than a little bruised by that comment. "Well, I do. And I think you should talk about it."

"Fine," Marty relented, dropping the box he had filled with loose mechanics into his truck. He reached for another box and unfolded it. "We'll talk."

Marty again returned to the tracks. "Okay," Jen smiled a little smugly now that she had gotten her boyfriend to cave in. She approached him. "So how are you feeling?"

"Great," he muttered sarcastically. Jennifer cast him a sharp look of disapproval. "Well, what do you want me to say?" Marty demanded, turning to look at her. "I feel lousy. You know I feel lousy. So why ask?"

"Because you need to know it," Jen said simply, matter-of-factly. "Are you going to miss him?"

"Jesus," Marty sighed to himself, frustrated for having to humor his girlfriend with answering ridiculous questions. "Yeah," he answered shortly.

"Why?" came the next question.

"Why?" Marty asked, glancing back at Jen. He thought about this for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know."

"There must be a reason," Jen replied. "Why do you miss him? Why were you sad to see him go? What was the big deal? Why was Doctor Brown so important to you?"

Marty stood, lifting the box he had yet to fill with equipment with him. He turned his gaze up to the sky and stared at nothing. "I guess ..." Marty strained his mind to think. Finally, he came up with a suitable response: "I guess because he taught me how to stand up for myself."

"He did?" Jennifer asked, puzzled. She didn't remember hearing anything of the sort from her boyfriend's mouth any of the times they had spoken about Doc and Marty's relationship in the past. That meant they were really covering some unearthed ground, so to speak. "How?"

Marty regarded Jen thoughtfully. As a matter of fact, he had never told Jennifer about how he and Doc had crossed paths. "You want the whole story?" he asked her. She nodded. "All right," Marty said, more eager to recollect the past than dwell on present events. He plunged ahead.

"Marty, dear!" Lorraine Baines McFly rapped on her son's bedroom door lightly. "You'd better get up or you'll be late for your first day of school!"

Fourteen year-old Marty McFly lay in bed, hands behind his head, eyes wide open and staring up at the white ceiling above. He didn't bother to respond. He hadn't slept much the night before, his stomach twisted in nervous knots over having to start his first day of high school. Freshmen years was supposed to be the worst, as his older brother Dave, having graduated a year ago, constantly imparted to his younger sibling.

"Marty?" his mother called again. "Are you up, hon?"

"Yeah!" Marty cried, aggravated. He sat up in bed and stretched. There wasn't much he could do now. The day had arrived and it was time to face it. Though, Marty reminded himself, he wasn't very good with confrontations.

The young McFly climbed out of bed and went to his closet. No, being of his modest height, Marty wasn't one to pick fights. Or to defend himself against bullies. His father was the same way. He hated being like his dad. But he couldn't help it. There was always a piddling voice in his head telling him to keep his head down, ignore all insults, and fade into the background of society. Better to go unnoticed for the rest of his days than get unwelcome attention from resident hooligans.

That, most likely, was the reason he had so few friends. He was quiet. He wanted to converse with his peers, but he was afraid to. He was afraid of what they'd think of him, a little runt of a kid who got pushed around by anybody who bothered to notice his existence. His clique was composed of a few friends, outcasts like himself. He didn't feel like he belonged there, though. And while the group supplied him with peers to hang out with at school and a table to eat lunch at, Marty hardly spoke a word to them.

And now high school was about to begin. That meant it was going to be even harder for Marty to make friends. Friendships were already forged from grade school. And he didn't know exactly how to broach the subject of joining such an already engineered clique. So it seemed it was his destiny to continue down the same lonely path he had been since graduating grade school.

Marty didn't bother to try to deny this fate. It was inevitable.

Gloomily, the fourteen year old fished out a pair of jeans and a white shirt with a Nike logo from his closet and shuffled to the bathroom to prepare for the beginning of the infinity lasting four years of high school that laid before him.

 His father dropped Marty off outside of the high school. As the teenager climbed out of the car, George McFly turned to look at his son and smiled weakly. "Have fun, son," he said.

Marty rolled his eyes at the comment, expecting that to be the last thing he was going to have.

George could relate. Maybe he should say something to pick up his son's spirits. But what could he say? Marty waited by the door, watching his father. George's mouth hung open as if he wanted to speak, to say some words of encouragement. Instead, George quickly turned away from his son and stared blankly ahead, snapping his mouth shut again.

A bit annoyed, but not at all surprised, Marty slammed the passenger's door to his father's car, slipped his backpack over his shoulder, and walked slowly down the walk that led to the school's front doors. George pulled out a moment later, forcing himself not to look back.

As he dragged his feet, not at all anticipating reaching the front doors to the ominous building, two boys glided past him on skateboards. Marty smiled a little as he watched them skid to a stop and kick at the tail-end of their boards, catching the front wheels in one hand and hurrying inside the building. Skateboarding had to be one of the coolest activities in the world. Marty wished he could learn how to do it. He'd need a skateboard first, actually. Then there was the trouble of trying to figure out all of the bothersome tricks. Just learning to keep his balance and keep his speed going would take a hell of a lot of practice!

And he didn't think his father would ever buy him a board. Always the same excuse: he didn't have the money. It was a wonder he had enough attire to keep himself clothed each day of the week! And most of that was hand-me-downs from his brother! It was pretty tough being popular wearing half-decade old shirts from the local thrift shop. He had finally gotten his mother to cave in and allow him to purchase some new clothes before his high school year began earlier that summer, though he wasn't able to acquire much with his mother's fifty dollar restriction on the total amount spent.

Marty finally reached the front doors. Drawing in a long breath, the young teenager reached out and pulled open the door and stepped inside.

It was huge! He'd never been inside the building before and he was immediately shocked to find the long stretch of hall that forever reached out before him. And this was only the first floor!

There were blue lockers lined up along each wall, doorways to classrooms separating them every few feet. As Marty stood, gawking around, he was pushed forward by another student as he made his way through the door. Marty scrunched his face with dissatisfaction as he watched the kid advance away from him, oblivious to the young McFly's existence. Another kid passed him, bumping into his shoulder and causing Marty to stumble forward another step. Kids were starting to pile in now, school about to begin in a couple of minutes. Marty stepped away from the doorway to avoid being trampled in the teenaged herd and slid his backpack off of his shoulder. He unzipped his pack and quietly scrounged through his notebooks, searching for the schedule that had been mailed to him last week. That would tell him where his first class was.

After a bit of rummaging through his not so methodically arranged papers, Marty finally came up with his schedule. Unfolding the paper, he scanned the page for his homeroom number. He found it: 227. That meant it was on the second floor.

Brrriiiing! Marty stared up at the alarm hanging on the wall before him as he heard the first class bell ring. A few kids lingered in the hallway, but most moved to find their respective homerooms. The young McFly sighed and picked up his backpack. He was going to be late for his first class! All of the good seats would be taken, and that probably meant having to sit in the front. Perfect.

Marty stood and hurried to his class. As he came to the stairway, an arm reached out and grabbed his elbow and squeezed it tightly. Marty released a squeak of surprise as he was pulled less than gently back into the hall. The teenager spun around and looked straight ahead. Then he craned his neck to stare up at the imposing figure that stood before him.

"Tardy, aren't we, young man?" the sinister bald man inquired.

Marty gulped and continued to gawk, wide-eyed. His brother had told him about the chrome-dome disciplinarian, Mr. Strickland, who ruled the school's hallway, and Marty had a feeling that he was now having his first encounter with the man. A part of him had hoped that Dave had been embellishing to frighten Marty. As was obvious, this of Dave's fables had a very thick streak of truth. "Uh, no," Marty said, shifting on his feet. "Well, I mean, yeah, but I didn't --"

Strickland whipped out a pad of yellow paper from his suit pocket and began to scribble across it. "What's your name?" he demanded.

"Uh ... Uh ..." Marty stuttered. "Marty McFly."

Strickland took his eyes from the pad of paper to look down at the boy. "McFly? You know, I'm glad I ran into you, son."

"Uh, you are?" Marty asked.

Strickland draped one arm over Marty's shoulders and walked the teenager forward. "Let me give you a nickel's worth of free advice, young man: I don't like tardiness. Tardiness is for slackers. Your brother was a real slacker. So was your father when he went here. It must run in the gene pool."

Marty didn't reply. Strickland squeezed his shoulder and Marty stared up at the schoolmaster innocently. "I don't like slackers, McFly. And being of the roots you come from is already two strikes against you. Your father didn't understand the importance of an education; neither did your brother. Look at them now: utter failures. You don't want to end up like them, do you, McFly?"

"No," Marty shook his head immediately.

"Sir," Strickland added. "No, sir. I'm an authority at this school, McFly, and I should be treated as such. It seems your parents have taught you little about respect. It doesn't surprise me. You want to be a success, McFly, I suggest you buckle down. Get good grades and keep your head out of the clouds. And for God's sake, be on time! You kids today think that it won't matter: miss a minute here, miss a minute there. You won't miss much. Well, listen to me, McFly: It matters. Every minute, every second, every instant counts! Fill your brain with something useful in lieu of that loathsome rock music. Do you understand me, McFly?"

"Uh, yeah," Marty nodded quickly.

Strickland give him a sharp glare.

"Uh, sir," Marty amended. "Yes, sir."

"Good," Strickland removed his hand from Marty's shoulder and continued to scribble across the front page of his yellow pad. Then he ripped the page off and handed it to the teenager. "Tardy slip for you. Four of those in a row and I get you all to myself. I suggest you make this your last, McFly. I'm going to have my eye on you."

Strickland waited for a response. "Yes, sir," Marty mumbled.

Strickland nodded, smiling pleasantly, then turned around to continue his patrol of the halls. Marty stared at the yellow slip he had been issued with indignation. This Strickland character was even worse than his brother had painted him to be! Marty allowed his pique to simmer down back into his gut, pushing the confrontation out of his mind, and hurried back to the stairs. Now he was going to be even more late!

 The bell rang, releasing Marty from his eighth and final class period of the day. He had made it through his first day of high school even more ignored by his peers (if that was possible) than in junior high. Nobody he had known from junior high school was in his lunch period (which was divided into three intervals to supply all of the students with adequate seating), so Marty ate alone. He didn't talk to many people in his classes, only when he had to or when someone struck up a conversation, which hadn't happened often.

Now it was finally over. One day down, one hundred and eighty seven more to go. It was going to be a long year, Marty could tell already. He reached the first floor and immediately shuffled to the nearest exit which happened to lead out the right side of the building, his head hung and staring at the scuffed tile floor beneath him.

He pushed open the side door and looked around, attempting to get his bearings. He knew this wasn't the front of the school, but being his first day he was easily lost, not completely certain which way to turn to get back to the front of the school. After a moment, Marty located the street beyond the school's entranceway and headed in that direction.

He passed a cluster of kids about his age, huddled together near the side wall of the school. Marty hardly paid them any attention as he headed toward the street outside the school where his father was supposed to pick him up.

Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Marty was whirled around to face the boy who had grabbed him, one of the kids who had been hanging close to the wall. "Hold this," the boy insisted, shoving a can of spray paint into Marty's hands.
Marty looked up from the bottle at the boy, then over to the wall of the building. It was littered with graffiti, and Marty instantly assumed that the four boys who stood before him had been in the process of adding their own art-work to the mix.

"Needles," Marty heard a voice grunt behind him and spun around to look up at the school's disciplinarian. "McFly. Is that a spray can in your hands?"

Marty stared down at the canister he held dumbly. "Uh, no," Marty said innocently. "Well, I mean, it is, but ..."

"We were just going to go get you, Mr. Strickland, sir," the boy who had handed the spray can off to Marty said. His black, greasy hair was slicked back and he had a distinguishable gap between his two front teeth. "When we saw this kid markin' up the walls, we thought we should get an authority to take care of it."

"You did, huh?" Mr. Strickland said, doubt in his voice. "Is that right, McFly?" Strickland glared down at Marty, demanding an answer as if he were a detective interrogating a suspected murderer.

"Uh, no," Marty quickly shook his head. "No, sir," he added when Strickland squinted his eyes menacingly at him. "They gave this to me, sir. I-I didn't have anything to do with it."

"Is that right?" Strickland returned his gaze to the group of four hoodlums that stood behind Marty. "Are you being less than honest with me, Mr. Needles?"

"Of course not, sir," Needles replied. "The little runt's lying."

Strickland laughed in his throat. "You do understand that the destruction of public property is an offense in this country, don't you, Needles?"

"Of course," Needles answered. "Which is why I'd never dream of doing anything of the sort, sir."

"Why don't you boys come with me?" Strickland waved Needles and his pals forward. "I think we should have a talk with your parents."

Needles groaned loudly. "But I didn't do anything! The little goober's the one with the spray paint!" The boy pointed his finger accusingly at Marty.

Marty quickly dropped the can onto the grass as if to vindicate himself of any such crime, but didn't bother to absolve himself vocally.

"Come along," Strickland repeated. "To my office."

The clique moved forward reluctantly, the boy who had done the talking, Needles, glaring back at Marty angrily as he went. Strickland turned to look back at Marty. "You, too, McFly."

"Me?" Marty squeaked with shock. "But, but, Mr. Strickland! I didn't do anything!"

"The evidence isn't exactly in your favor, McFly," Strickland said, turning his gaze to the spray paint can that now lay on the ground. "You know, McFly, you shouldn't hang out with these boys. They're real trouble, real slackers."

"But I didn't' --"

Strickland cut him off. "Maybe this will teach you a lesson. Come on, McFly. Let's get in touch with your parents and let them know what you've been up to."

Marty sighed, frustrated, but moved forward to follow Strickland. He hadn't even done anything! It was so unfair! And when his mom found out that he (allegedly) had been defacing public property, she'd have a cow!

 Strickland called each boys' parents separately to deliver the news of their offence. None of the adults seemed too pleased when their children were put on the line, each boy vehemently denying any involvement in such a crime. But Marty was telling the truth! Then Strickland got back on the phone and gave the parents one of two options: one day suspension or one Saturday spent in the company of Strickland, painting over the mess they had made. And of course, parents being parents, they chose the Saturday. Any one of the five boys would have instantly selected a forced day off of school, had the choice been theirs to make.

Mr. Strickland hung up with the last boy's parents and looked up at the group, smirking. "Well, it looks like I'll see you all here Saturday, then. I want you here bright and early, seven o' clock. No slackers!" Then the disciplinarian turned away from the boys and sat back in his wood desk chair. "You're dismissed," he waved the back of his hand at them.

The accused stepped out of Strickland's office a moment later. The four boys hung back, chatting among themselves, and Marty shuffled forward, toward the nearest exit. It led out the front, where his father was supposed to be waiting. Marty stepped outside the door. Before he had a chance to scan the street beyond, a hand reached out and grabbed Marty's shoulder.

The young teenager jumped at the contact and spun around to find Needles grinning down at him. "You know, McFly," Needles drawled, having learned the boy's name once they had all been collected inside the disciplinarian's office, "you got me in deep shit back there."

Marty opened his mouth to say something in his defence. It was the dufus' own fault! He was the one who had been breaking the rules! But the words didn't come out of Marty's mouth, instead lingering in his throat, Marty forcing them back down inside of him for fear of the repercussions of such an outburst.

Instead, Marty spun around to run away. Needles grabbed his shoulder and forcibly turned Marty back around to face him. "Where you goin', McFly? What, are ya' chicken shit?"

The three cronies behind him chortled loudly at the insult. Marty finally raised enough gumption to reply. "I don't wanna fight."

Needles let him go, as if to comply with Marty's request. "That so?" he asked. Then he suddenly lashed out, shoving Marty hard and causing the teenager to stumbled backwards. "Well, that's too bad!" Needles sneered. "I don't like when little chicken shits get me in trouble. I don't like to be ratted out, you don't want to fight. Eye for an eye, you know?"

Or tooth for a tooth, Marty thought, eyeing the gap between the teenager's two front incisors. But he didn't dare quip out loud.

"So whataya guys think?" Needles asked, staring back at his band. Then he turned to face Marty. Cracking his knuckles, he grinned wickedly. "Payback's a bitch!"

Marty took a step back as Needles advanced toward him. The more steps his assailant took forward, the more Marty took back. "Where ya' goin', McFly?" Needles demanded, picking up his pace.

Before Marty could turn around and bolt away, Needles shoved him once, hard against his chest. Marty stumbled back again, but managed to keep his balance. "Don't feel like ratting on me now, do ya?" Needles cried, shoving Marty hard again.

This time Marty tripped over the turned up root of a tree a few feet away and fell to the ground, onto his back. He stared up at Needles wide-eyed. "Get up!" Needles ordered. Then he rushed forward, swinging his leg back to kick Marty in the gut. The teenager quickly scrambled to his feet, avoiding being struck, and ran a good distance from Needles before turning to face him again.

"All right, McFly," Needles smirked, still moving toward him. "Tell you what. I'll give you a free shot. Right here." Needles pointed at his chin. "I'll let you have a free shot."

Marty clenched his fists. Needles strode up to him and bumped his chest against Marty's nose. He glared down at Marty. "Go ahead, dweeb!" Needles commanded.

Marty looked around. A few kids had seen what was happening and had begun to gather around the outskirts of the imaginary boxing ring. They were watching his every move. "Go ahead!" Needles commanded again.

Marty dug his fingers into his palm. Then, he released his grip and let his hands fall flat. He couldn't hit him! He'd never hit anyone before in his life! He wasn't even sure how strong he was! It might not even hurt! And even if it did, that would just give Needles even more reason to pound his brains in. No, that wouldn't do. Marty decided that his best plan of action would be to run.

He spun around and sprinted away from Needles, but the hot-tempered youth was too quick. He grabbed Marty's wrist and yanked him back, twirling Marty around to face him again. "That's what I thought! Chicken shit!"

Needles pulled his arm back, balled his fist, and prepared to swing at Marty. As the punch came, Marty swiftly ducked it and fell to the ground. He crawled around Needles quickly, then got to his feet and began to sprint away. To his dismay, the path before him was now lined with kids from the school! It wasn't late enough for all of them to have left, most of the buses still parked on the other side of the lot waiting for their timed departure. It appeared that the whole school was there, watching Marty's every move!
If he chickened out now, the whole school would remember it forever! And that's how they'd remember Marty: as a chicken!

The teenager halted in his tracks and turned to face Needles. The hoodlum had been chasing him, but now slowed his pace as he saw Marty come to a stop. "You ready for payback, twerp?" Needles barked.

This was it. Marty was going to have to fight. Needles approached him and shoved him hard again. "Let's go!" Needles cried. He pushed him again. "Come on!"

Marty balled his fists. This was it. No turning back. Marty slowly raised his fist, prepared to strike ... then promptly dropped it. He couldn't do it. It was too much! Tears began to bubble over his eyes. Marty quickly wiped them away, but not quickly enough.

"What, are ya' crying?" Needles snickered. "Hey, look at McFly! He's cryin'!"

"Someone better change his diapers!" one of Needle's goons called.

Needle's entire entourage chortled loudly at that one. A few kids behind Marty snickered as well, while others whispered amongst themselves. "Look at the chicken McFly!" another of Needle's stooges hollered and pointed his finger at Marty.

He couldn't take it! Marty had to get out of there and away from that hell! He twisted around and darted toward the barrier of students. "Move!" Marty cried as he pushed his way in between the bodies. Finally, he managed to get through. Salvation lasted a half-moment as Marty turned to look behind him and saw Needles and his gang making their way through the bodies to follow him.

Marty continued his sprint, heading directly toward the street outside the school. He paused at the sidewalk pavement and scanned the street. "Shit," Marty muttered under his breath. His father should have been there by now, but his Plymouth Reliant was nowhere to be seen. He was late, as usual!

Marty didn't have time to dawdle. Needles wasn't going to let the confrontation dissolve away that easily. Glancing back, Marty saw that Needles had just made it through the crowd and was now continuing his chase. Marty spurted away from the pavement, heading in the direction that would lead him to the town square.

Chancing another look back, Marty saw Needles shove one of his pals and point off in a direction toward the school, and all four boys veered off that way. Marty slowed his speed, wondering if the chase had been given up so easily. Then he saw where the boys were headed. They rushed up to the bike rack in the school's parking lot and bent down to unchain their bicycles. Marty picked up his pace again. He'd have to run fast as hell to escape the punks once they took off after him on mobile transportation.

He made it out of the school's boundaries without loosing much breath. He was young and energetic and light-weight, giving him a speed above many others. Though, he didn't run much, which could cause him to lose stamina fairly quickly. As he turned the corner onto Dale Road, Marty glanced back to see the boys just pulling out of the school's parking lot and into the street, pedalling hard to catch up with him.

Just outside Hill Valley High was the school's football field. Marty decided to cross through there and he cut a sharp left onto the grass. The boys turned in that direction as well. Being farther ahead actually gave his pursuers the advantage. They could see every move he made in advance and take advantage. Now they were gaining on him rapidly.

Down the field he ran, Needles and company getting closer and closer all the time. He couldn't outrun them! Marty made it off of the football field without being caught, but now the boys were just a few feet behind him and still accelerating. Marty dashed across the street to his right and ran into a housing development, hoping to lose his harassers.

It didn't work. The boys were still getting closer, Needles at the front, pumping hard to catch up to Marty. He stood up on the pedals and reached out his hand, balancing himself with his other. He pulled up just behind Marty, to his left, and swatted at his shoulder, but just missed. Needles almost toppled over, losing his balance. He immediately returned his free hand to its appropriate handlebar and kicked harder. Again he reached his hand out.

Marty dared a glance back. Needles was close enough that he could count the wrinkles in his scrunched forehead. "Jeez!" Marty exhaled through a puff of breath. He returned his gaze to his front, just in time to see a little girl, pulling a red wagon with a baby doll perched up inside, behind her, cross his path. Marty had no time to react, and collided with the wagon. He flipped over, the wagon toppling away from him and clanging back onto its wheels after making a 360 degree turn, and his backpack was thrown away from him. Needles had to swerve to avoid hitting the girl head on, and the three boys behind him braked suddenly.

Marty stood slowly, trying to calm his rattled nerves. The little girl he had nearly ran into was now bawling her eyes out. Marty felt real awful about it, but didn't have time to apologize. Needles had climbed off his bike and dropped it to the ground. He lunged at Marty. Marty quickly reached down and grabbed his backpack and took a step back. He tripped over the wagon again, this time losing his balance and toppling inside of it. The additional weight caused the wagon to inch forward toward the sloping hill before him. Suddenly, before Marty knew what was happening, the wagon was coasting down the hill, down the street that led to the town square.

"Get him!" Needles cried, picking up his bike and setting it up straight.

The boys obeyed and all four climbed back onto their bikes and took off after the accelerating wagon.

Marty could feel the wind whipping at his hair and he had to wonder just what the hell was going on. Turning onto his stomach, Marty peered over the front edge of the wagon. The street whizzed by under the red wagon's wheels, bumping along as it gained speed down the slope. Marty's heart pounded hard against chest. He turned to look behind him. The four boys were still following him, only now their distance was much farther than when Marty was on foot.

He turned to look back out to the street and saw that the wagon was now angling off to the right, moving toward the curb of the sidewalk. If it hit, Marty was sure the abrupt stop would send him hurtling through the air and to a not very safe landing. Instinctively, Marty stood up in the wagon, using the black handle for support. His knees bent, Marty shifted his weight to the left and maneuvered the handle in that direction, hoping the rest of the wagon would follow.
It didn't. Marty leaned farther to the left and gave the handle a harder tug in that direction. The right wheels lifted from the ground for a moment, then bounced back to earth, much to Marty's relief; for a terrified moment, he was certain he was going to knock it over. But the wagon was still slanting to the right. Marty leaned all the way over and back, bending his knees and bending the handle back and to the left.

As the wagon reached the curb, the wheels just straightened out. The right wheels scraped against the edge of the curb, but didn't go over, instead being pushed away from the curb and back toward the street. There wasn't much Marty could do to control the hellish wagon, and it seemed that he was just going to have to go along for the ride and hope that everything turned out all right.

The wagon rolled into the town square and the ground began to level off. As it sped past the clock tower courthouse, Marty took a look behind him and saw that his harassers were catching up fast. They were persistent, that was obvious. Marty wasn't so sure how long the wagon would keep its current speed and, after that, how long he'd be able to outrun the hell-bent punks.

The wagon was now out of the town square. Marty glanced back in front of him, just in time to see a long step van pull in before him from a side street. Marty screamed and released his grip on the black handle. He fell backwards, taking an abrupt seat in the wagon. The step van swerved as the wagon rolled toward it. The handle, now sticking out and in front of the wagon, connected with the back end of the van, causing the wagon to jerk and spin around. The front wheels were thrown away from the road and into the air. Marty held onto either side of the wagon tightly, praying that he wouldn't be thrown out.

Finally, as the wagon slowed to a stop, Marty's grip slipped and the teenager spilled out of the wagon, rolling backwards and sliding on his stomach across the ground until his body came to a stop. The driver of the step van threw open his door to see if Marty was all right. Marty didn't allow him the chance to survey the situation; Needles and his gang were still barrelling straight toward him! Marty climbed to his feet and continued in the direction he had been heading. A moment later, Needles and his gang sped past the step van and around the fallen wagon.

Marty turned a corner onto the street the step van had pulled off of. He paused, looking back and forth, desperately trying to invent some plan. How could he get away? He ran across the street, deciding to try to hide himself in the Burger King across the way. If he entered the building before the boys turned on to the street, maybe they'd overpass him.
Marty slammed through the front doorway, pushing the door away from him as he sprinted into the chain store. Marty immediately went to the nearest window. A couple sat at the table before it on either ends, but the teenager was hardly aware of their existence as he slammed his hands flat down on the table and peered through the window.

Needles and his gang were cycling toward the building. Needles stood on his bike, pedalling fast, and pointed at the restaurant, screaming something to his cohorts. That was enough to convince Marty that it was necessary he make a hasty exit. He spun around and headed for the service counter. Going out the front would do no good.

Pushing through the row of patrons who awaited their chance to order a quick mid afternoon meal, Marty made his way to the front counter, hopped over it, and ran toward the back.

"Hey!" he heard someone shout behind him from the line. "You can't go back here!"

Marty didn't stop. Instead, he ran to the back storage room where there was a door to the outside. He pushed it open and found himself on the corner of the drive-through. Marty took a few steps away from the building and looked over to the front to see Needles and his gang drop their bikes to the ground and rush into the building. He had to get out of there before they exited again! He had to find somewhere to hide!

Marty rushed forward toward the nearest building, an old dilapidated garage that sat a few yards away from the Burger King. After pulling himself over the gate that surrounded the carport, Marty went around the back of the garage and to the right side. Here he stopped to catch his breath and squeeze the side of his stomach which had cramped up from his long and exhausting run from school into town, and peered around to see what Needles was up to now.

The gang had returned out the front door, having no success in locating Marty. Needles was barking orders at his three sidekicks. He gave each a path to follow, pointing in the appropriate direction. It seemed he was determined to find Marty and beat his brains in. The boys split off, one boy heading north, another south, and one back the way they had come. Needles grabbed his bike and pushed off, heading down the way Marty had run, looking back and forth.

Oh no! Needles would spot him for sure now! What could he do? Marty backed up against the side wall of the garage and felt around. His hand closed around a doorknob. Marty crossed his heart and prayed that it wasn't locked. He turned the knob and the door slid open behind him. Marty stumbled in backwards and quickly slammed the door shut.

He gave the inside of the garage a cursory glance. The only windows in the stuffy place that he could see were set up high toward the roof. He still wasn't sure that Needles hadn't seen him enter. If he had, then he'd be cornered and find himself on the wrong end of a bully's pounding, if there was a right end.

Dropping his backpack in a corner of the garage, Marty went to a table set against the wall that looked out to John F. Kennedy Drive and climbed on top of it. Standing on his tip-toes, Marty cupped his hands over his eyes and peered out the dusty window. He tried to wipe some of the dirt away, but it stuck hard, obviously not having been cleaned in quite some time. He could just make out Needles' figure through the dirty glass. He rode past the garage, looking back and forth, searching for Marty. He continued onward without stopping, down and down the street until he was a dot in the distance.

Marty heaved a relieved sigh and turned away from the window and leaped down from the table. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Marty now took a good look at the area within the garage for the first time, the fear of ending up in the intensive care ward at Hill County Hospital now behind him.

It was a cluttered mess. Even Marty, who wasn't exactly the epitome of cleanliness, wrinkled his face in disgust at the objects seemingly strewn about in no apparent order. Pieces of technology, varied tools, and boxes littered the floor, along with wrappers and cups, mostly from the next door Burger King. There were also few items of furniture surrounding the junk: a red easy chair, two beds, a few tables, and a jukebox. Marty clasped his hands behind his back and began to stroll around the inerior of the garage, his curious eyes exploring his surroundings.

Marty had heard rumors about the guy who lived here from when he was a child. Most kids thought he was some mad scientist, a Doctor Frankenstein type, who was conducting weird experiments on innocent children. Marty gulped, rubbing his hand across his adam's apple. Every time he had come by this place there had always been some bustle of activity or noise, which only seemed to add credibility to the rumors. If Marty hadn't been so concerned with getting away from Needles, he might have thought twice about choosing this place to hide. Then again, now that Needles was gone, he could probably leave without the Doctor (as the neighborhood kids referred to him) ever knowing he was there.

But something intrigued him about the place. It was like facing a life-long fear. And for some reason, Marty wasn't scared or nervous. He was quite calm, actually, more curious than anything. As a child, he had imagined a long cot in the center of the room, Frankenstein's monster (made up of local Hill Valley children's appendages) on top, a sheet over the body, electrical rods and devices surrounding the figure, ready to bring it to life with a shock of lightning. Instead he found a place that, while not too tidy, was pretty normal, save for the all the gadgets and gizmos on the floor and tables. Now he was more interested in who the Doctor really was, rather than who his peers had painted him to be.

Marty went to the nearest table and picked up a small gimmick. Little rods stuck out of a metal flat, springs and wires surrounding them. Marty pulled one of the springs back and watched it bounce back and forth. Then he set the device back onto the table and continued around the garage.

"Look at all this stuff," Marty said to himself. It was no one wonder he had earned the pseudonym Doctor, what with all the instruments and technology he seemed to fool around with. Marty had never actually seen the Doctor himself. He was apparently a recluse and tended to keep to himself, enclosed in this stuffy garage. Marty could relate in those regards, with keeping himself locked up inside his home. If it wasn't for school, Marty wasn't sure if he'd ever really be motivated to breathe fresh air.

Marty circled around the garage and passed a jukebox which sat near the back wall, and a table with a saxophone resting on top. He wondered if the Doctor played the instrument. Marty chuckled to himself, an image of a mad scientist with long dark hair in a long white lab coat, goggles strapped to his face, his cheeks puffed and rocking a tune through the saxophone, flashing into his mind.

Marty paused before a guitar stand that set a few feet away from the single bed that rested against the right wall. Apparently the Doctor was a musician. A smirk spread across the young teenager's face and he reached out for the odd-shaped yellow guitar. He didn't know how to play, but he loved music. Locked in his room after school, he'd turn up the radio and listen to his favorite rock cassettes. He only wished he had the talent to play the magnificent instrument.

He held the guitar up to his chest, then brought it down lower until it felt more comfortable. Then he turned it around, realizing that he was supposed to hold the neck with his left hand. He spread his fingers across the cords and slid the pick from in between the strings. He held his right hand up high, imagined the roaring crowd before him, and strummed the cords with one gigantic swoop of his hand.

The guitar slipped from his grasp and thumped to the floor. Marty wrenched his face as the guitar toppled face-up onto the hard-wood surface and made a blaring reverberation as if the thing could feel pain and was wailing in anguish. He must not have been holding the neck tightly enough. Marty bent down and picked up the instrument, gently placing it back into its stand. He kneeled to get a closer look at the guitar. The little switched near the edge of the instrument had snapped off in the fall. The Doctor wouldn't be happy when he found out.

Something yelped at him. Marty spun around and looked in the direction of the noise. A dog poked its head up from a basket bassinet in a corner of the room. The dog climbed out of the bed and walked toward Marty. It looked up at him and barked again, loudly.

"Shhh!" Marty commanded, putting his finger to his mouth.

The dog didn't comply. It yelped even louder, continuing its strut up to Marty. It paused when it reached the teenager's feet. It bent down and sniffed at his shoes, then yelped, retracted, and backed away, running back to its basket. The dog hopped back in and sat up. It barked once more at Marty, as if ordering him to leave.

Marty took a look around. Maybe he should heed the dog's warning and make an exit. He ran across the room back to the front of the garage. He pulled himself up onto the table set against the large double doors and peered out the window. No, it didn't appear Needles was anywhere in sight. The coast was clear.

Marty climbed back down from the table and went to the side door. His heart skipped when he saw the knob turn as he reached out to grab it. Marty reacted instantly, turning the lock from inside. The Doctor was home! Marty looked around frantically as he heard the knob being jiggled back and forth. He had to hide!

Marty dove under the table he had climbed on top of and grabbed for a black sheet of plastic. Draping it across his body, Marty peered out over the sheet and watched as the door was unlocked and opened inward. A figure stepped in, walking backwards, carrying two large paper bags in either arm. Kicking the door shut with his leg, the figure turned around and continued to the table Marty sat under. From the position he sat in under the table, Marty could only view the figure's legs and the white sneakers he wore. He heard him dump the two bags onto the table above. Then the legs turned around so the Doctor's back was now to Marty.

"You know, Einstein," he heard the Doctor's gruff voice, "if I didn't know any better, I'd swear I didn't lock that door when I left. In fact, I'd guarantee it. And unless you learned how to turn the lock in my fifteen minute absence, I'd venture a guess that we've had some unannounced visitors."

Marty swallowed hard. He saw the Doctor walk away from his direction. He paused at the guitar stand. Marty felt the lump in his throat grow larger and found himself unable to swallow it. The Doctor bent over and examined the broken switch.

"So, Einie," the Doctor stood erect and turned to look at his pet, tipping his brimmed hat away from his brow. "Have I miscalculated, or have we indeed had company?"

The dog barked once.

"Is that right?" the Doctor said, pleased, his back still to Marty. "Well, boy, if that's the case, then maybe our friend's still around. After all, who would lock the door after they left? How's my hypothesis?" the Doctor looked down at his pet.

The dog barked once more.

"I thought as much. So, Einie, you being my only key witness, why don't you show me exactly where the perpetrator is hiding?"

The dog lay still. Then it got up, shook itself off, and waltzed across the room toward Marty's direction and the Doctor followed.
Marty finally got the heart-sized lump swallowed. Then, he tossed the plastic sheet over his head and waited for the Doctor to tear him from his hiding place, buzz off all his appendages, and make quite a fetching creature of his parts.

The Doctor pulled the sheet away from Marty's face. His dog had led him straight to the area under the table and had begun yelping at Marty's hidden figure. Now the Doctor stared down at Marty, his brow turned down. His face was grooved with wrinkles. His white hair flared from his scalp, tangled and untamed. Marty didn't know what to say. His mouth hung open, not a sound escaping his throat.

The Doctor kneeled down and stuck his head under the table. "Hello there," he grinned. This facial expression in particular made him look even madder. "Care to tell me what you're doing under my work table?"

Marty's jaw remained open, any noise that he may have tried to squeak out retreating back into his gullet.

"You weren't scheming some sort of act of vandalism on my property, were you?" the Doctor inquired.

Marty quickly shook his head.

The Doctor frowned. "Oh? Interesting. So, then, what are you doing under my work table?"

Marty couldn't reply. "Not terribly vocal, are you?" the Doctor said. "Most children that come around here are usually making trouble. In fact, all of them thus far have. Statistically speaking, you can understand my skepticism. And without any further evidence, I'd have to deduce that is indeed what you are up to."

"Oh ... no," Marty shook his head once. "I-I-I-"

"So you can converse," the Doctor smiled pleasantly, though to Marty it remained an iniquitous smirk. "Why don't you tell me what you're doing here then?"

Marty held the plastic sheet up to his form, his hands clenching it tightly to his chest. "I I didn't mean to ... I mean, I had to come here, 'cause these jerks were chasing me!"

"What jerks?" the Doctor asked.

"This dufus named Needles," Marty supplied. "An' his dumb friends. They-they just started picking on me for no reason! So I ran from the school!"

"The school?" the Doctor raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Hill Valley High?" Marty nodded enthusiastically. "That's nearly three miles from here. You ran all that way?"

"Uh, no," Marty rectified. "I kinda fell in this wheelbarrow thingie and rolled into town."

"You mean a little red wagon?" the Doctor asked. Marty nodded again. "Were those punks chasing you on bikes?"

"Yeah!" Marty cried.

The Doctor puzzled for a moment. "That was you in the wagon," he mumbled aloud. "All right, kid, I believe you. Get up."

The Doctor pulled his head from the table and stood erect, gently rubbing his back. "I'm getting too old to be bending over like that." He peered down at Marty who still sat under the table, clinging to the plastic sheet. "What's wrong?"

"You're not gonna make me into one of your experiments, are you?" Marty asked quietly.

The Doctor almost laughed out loud at the question, but quickly stifled his outburst. "Don't believe everything you hear, kid. Some people'll say anything to satisfy their egos and others'll believe anything if it means not having to think. Let that be a lesson to you: Don't let others tell you how to think. Do it yourself. You'll be surprised how much your and their opinions differ."

"Uh, yeah," Marty said, tossing the plastic sheet aside and pulling himself out of the corner under the table. "I'm sorry I busted into your place."

"It's my fault," the Doctor objected. "If I didn't want punk kids pilfering things from my lab, I wouldn't leave the door unlocked, even if it is for a quick trip into town."

"Lab?" Marty asked, looking around.

"Lab slash home slash carport. Less a carport now, though."

"So are you really a doctor?" Marty asked.

"Yep," the Doctor nodded. "That's what my degree says, anyway. Not of medicine, mind you, but of science."

"So you don't make Frankensteins?" Marty asked.

"Actually, Frankenstein was the creator. The monster actually had no name, at least not originally." The Doctor looked down at Marty thoughtfully. "Is that what they say about me?"

Marty nodded.

"Interesting," the Doctor said. "Well, no, I don't make monsters, or deal with anything human for that matter, especially anything deceased. I deal with inanimate objects and formulas. Stuff only the mind can invent. That's the real challenge. The human anatomy is out there, waiting for us to discover it and pick it apart. Science, now that's something that we have to come up with ourselves."

"It's kinda hard," Marty shrugged his shoulders and turned to look at the side door. He was itching to get out of there. The Doctor wasn't exactly crazy, but being around him still made the young boy nervous.

"Well, naturally. Anything's difficult when you first try to learn it. And if you don't have any particular interest in it, it's even that much more difficult. And of course, it requires using your brain to actually think about things that we can't see. It requires us to understand the universe without ever seeing it. To imagine what it is and how the rules work. But you know, my theory is, if we can imagine it, it can be done. All we have to figure out is how to do it. After all, we are part of the universe. Whatever we can fathom is attainable. Otherwise we couldn't fathom it. For anyone who tells you that it's impossible, just tell them right back that if you can think it, it can be done. You tell them that if they put their mind to it, they can accomplish anything!"

"No way," Marty objected. "Like, what if I said I wanted to fly?"

"Aeronautics," the Doctor answered matter-of-factly.

"But I mean like me, on my own. Without wings or a jet pack or anything. Just me," Marty insisted.

"Can you think it?" the Doctor asked. "Can you imagine it?"

"Yeah, but that's just -"

"Then you can do it."

Marty rolled his eyes, not for an instant believing the Doctor's words. "Can you do it?"

"Of course," the Doctor replied.

"Then do it."

"I don't know how," the Doctor returned. "I haven't figured out how to do it, nor have I even given it any consideration. I wouldn't even know how to go about figuring out how to do it. I could probably spend my entire life trying to figure out how to fly without wings and not come at all close. But that doesn't mean it's not possible. All that means is that I can't figure it out. Or that it won't be known how to accomplish such a task in my life-time. If you had wanted to travel to across the country in one day in the 1800's you'd say you couldn't do it. You could imagine it, but you couldn't do it. Now all we have to do it buy a plane ticket and fly. Across the country in one day. Simple. Back then it wasn't even fathomable. Now it's common. Humans were always capable of crossing the country in one day. But nobody thought it was possible. It took the evolution of science and the determination of man to make the unfathomable a reality. One day we'll fly without wings. And they'll wonder why we were so dense to not think it's possible."

"Whatever," Marty said, not at all interested. His eyes shifted from the scientist back to the exit.

The Doctor heaved a weary sigh. "Well, thanks for lending me your ear, anyway, kid," the Doctor said, turning away. Then he returned to his work table and began pulling out the equipment he had just purchased from the paper bags.

That was obviously Marty's cue. The teenager returned to the side door, opened it, and peered out. He scanned the street. No bullies. They must have given up their search, thank goodness.

Marty stepped out of the garage and went to the gate. He opened it, stepped through, closed it behind him, and hurried across the pavement toward his home a mile away. It hadn't been a very good first day. And Marty certainly dreaded going to school tomorrow. Already it seemed that fate was looking to make sure Marty had as miserable a time as possible during his four year confinement.

He'd have to tolerate it as best he could. Hopefully, fate would throw him a bone and let tomorrow's school day occur without incident. If Marty just stayed silent and kept to himself, perhaps he'd be all right.

Because Marty knew that he would never be able to salvage up enough courage to stand up to Needles. To stand up for himself. Fate was his only choice.

 Marty opened the front door to his house slowly. He peeked in and saw his mother a few paces away, her back to him, speaking into the phone. He entered the room, closing the door lightly behind him, and stood in the alcove, listening to his mother rant into the receiver.

"I don't care if he's busy!" she cried into the phone. Marty winced when he heard that annoyed tone. "I want my husband on the phone now! Our son is missing!"

"Mom," Marty took a step forward, deciding to reveal himself before any more trouble was caused.

Lorraine looked behind her. Then, seeing Marty, she suddenly slammed the receiver into the phone's cradle and hastened to the young teenager. "Marty! Where have you been?"

"Uh ... Dad forgot to pick me up." It was the truth. Not the whole truth, but the truth.

"I know," Lorraine sighed. "Why didn't you call me? I would have come to get you."

Marty shrugged.

"How did you get home?"

"I walked," Marty supplied.

"Walked? Alone? From the high school? Marty, do you know how dangerous that is?" his mother demanded.

"No, ma," Marty replied. "It's only a few miles."

"Marty, I don't want you going out anywhere on your own. It's dangerous! Do you understand?" His mother put her hands on her hips and glared down at him, an expression on her face that told Marty that there was only one answer to that question.

"Yes," Marty mumbled. "Can I go?"

"No," Lorraine said. "I want to talk to you about this supposed vandalism."

"I told you, ma, it wasn't me! It was those jerks!" Marty cried.

"Marty, how many times have I told you not to hang out with hoodlums? They'll only get you into trouble."

"I wasn't hanging out with them!"

"I think I'd believe the word of the school's disciplinarian over you," Lorraine said, folding her arms across her chest. "Go to your room, Marty. We'll finish this discussion when your father gets home."

"Why bother?" Marty retorted, shoving his hands into his pockets and shuffling off.

Lorraine scowled at that comment. She knew exactly what it meant, too. It was pretty pathetic when even her own children took shots at her husband's meekness. She huffed out a long and weary sigh and went to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. She needed to relax.

 Dinner was served without Marty's father's presence. Macaroni and cheese was the main (and only) course, and Lorraine dished it out and dropped the bowls on the dining table before each of her three children. Then, carrying over her own bowl, and a bottle of Vodka with her finger wrapped around a wine glass, Lorraine took a seat at the front of the table.

"Eat up, kids," she said, pouring herself a drink.

Marty poked at the sticky macaroni. His mother wasn't a very good cook, despite the fact that she'd had years of experience. His brother, Dave, ate the bowl up greedily. At an interval between spoonfuls, he asked: "Where's dad, ma?"

"He's working late again," Lorraine sighed, taking a long drink from her glass. She had yet to touch the macaroni.

The conversation ended for a long while then. They all knew what that meant: George's supervisor had demanded he stay late, and the father McFly was too gutless to oppose him. Marty scooped up a spoonful of pasty macaroni and pushed it into his mouth. He just wanted this day to end!

Not much later, when Marty had nearly finished his bowl, the family heard George's car pull into the driveway and the engine cut. A moment later, as predicted, George himself entered, hunched over, a briefcase in hand, his black-rimmed glasses resting precariously on the tip of his nose, his suit jacket slung over his arm. He pushed his glasses up to his face and scuffed into the house. Without speaking a word, he dropped his suitcase by the leg of the dinner table and took a seat. This was not an uncommon entrance.

Lorraine stood as he sat and went to get him a bowl of macaroni. George watched her go to the kitchen, then finally spoke: "Uh, Lorraine ... You'd better not bring me any dinner right now. I have a lot of work to do."

Lorraine glowered at her husband. This wasn't an uncommon confrontation. "What do you mean work?" she demanded. "You've already worked two and half hours late!"

"I've got these reports that I need to have to Biff first thing in the morning," George said. He bent over and picked up his suitcase. Placing it in his lap, he opened the case and began pulling out his papers.

"And why does Biff need them first thing in the morning?" Lorraine challenged.

"Well, Lorraine, that's when he needs them," George said, spreading the papers over his area of the table.

"And how long have you known about this?"

George swallowed. This was always the toughest question to answer. He should lie, just to end the conversation. But he couldn't. "Biff's very busy, Lorraine. He doesn't have time to do all of his --"

"Bull!" Lorraine slammed her foot to the ground. "Are you going to let that jack-ass walk over you for the rest of your life, George? If it's his work, then he should do it!"

"But Lorraine, he's my supervisor. If I don't do these reports he could get me fired."

"No, George! That's his work! He's the one who would get fired if they found out that you were the one doing his reports! Why don't you tell them?"

George looked up, poised to answer. "I-I-I ..." George dropped his head and began to scribble across the notebook before him. "I don't know," he finally muttered.

Lorraine poured herself another drink and quickly downed the glass. When was George going to grow up and be a man? She took a few deep breaths. There was no reason to get upset. She knew this was who he was when she had married him. She had loved him, once. He was a good man, but a coward. Never in a million years had she pictured this man to be her husband. But here he was. Lorraine often mused, if she had known what she knew now, would she have still married him? Ah, but that was in the past. And there was no changing that.

She poured another glass of vodka, took a sip, and ambled up to the dinner table again and had a seat. She decided, rather than push the subject, to change it. "George, do you know what your son was doing today?"

George gave not a word of response, fixated on the paperwork before him. Lorraine continued anyway. "He was caught vandalizing the school! Painting the walls with swastikas!"

"Swastikas?" Marty cried.

"Uh oh. I bet it's that teenaged rebellion thing," his sister, Linda, smirked. "Dave went through the same thing."

"You're not a part of some cult, are ya', Marty?" Dave asked. "I mean, you're not a Nazi or anything?"

"No!" Marty cried. "I didn't do anything!"

"The school's disciplinarian, Mr. Strickland, caught Marty and four other boys painting some sort of pornographic images on the side of the school!" Lorraine exclaimed.

"Pornographic?" Marty mumbled, incredulous. Either his mother or Strickland was making stuff up, and Marty was willing to bet it was the former. His mother always had a way of embellishing on the truth to get her point across.

"You met Strickland?" Dave asked. "Is he a pain in the ass or what?"

"David!" his mother scolded. Then she turned to her husband: "I told you he'd get into trouble if we didn't watch him, George! You'd better straighten the boy out!"

George looked up from his papers at his wife, then turned to look at Marty. "Uh, now, Marty ... You know that vandalism is wrong." He looked like he wanted to say more, but after a few seconds of silence, he turned away from his son and returned his gaze to his work.

"George!" Lorraine chided. "Don't you think he should be punished?"

"But I didn't do anything!" Marty pushed his seat back and stood, becoming ever more frustrated.

"He says he didn't do anything," George answered, completely lost in his work.

"And you're going to believe him? Of course he's going to say he didn't do it! Dave did it all the time!" Lorraine motioned toward her eldest child as proof.

Dave shrugged. "It's true."

"Goddamnit! I didn't do anything!" Marty shouted.

Now Lorraine stood. "Marty! Don't you dare use that language in this house!"

Marty felts the veins in his head throbbing. Don't use that language? His mother used it all the time! She sure knew how to set one hell of an example! But Marty didn't voice his refute. Instead, clenching his fists tightly and digging his fingernails into the skin of his palms, he stomped away from the table and marched to his room, slamming the door as loudly as he could behind him.

"George! Go talk some sense to your son!" Lorraine cried.

George didn't look up.

"George!"

He glanced up at her. Her face was menacing, daring a confrontation. "All right," George obeyed, setting his pencil down and standing. "I'll talk to him, Lorraine."

He left the table and went to Marty's room. He knocked on the door. There was no reply. George hesitated. Marty probably didn't want company and George wasn't exactly in a position to give him a pep talk. But if he returned to the dinner table without speaking to him, Lorraine was sure to spend the rest of the night grumbling about her son's knavery, George's ineptitudes, and how it all blended so hideously together to ravage her life. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, he finally turned the knob to Marty's door and peered in.

"Son? Are you all right?"

George stepped in. Marty lay on his bed, his hands under his head, and stared up at the ceiling. His father closed the door behind him. "What happened?"

"Nothing!" Marty answered angrily. "Mom doesn't know what she's talking about! I didn't do anything!"

George sat at the edge of Marty's bed. "I believe you, son."

"Then why don't you tell mom? She thinks I'm the next Hitler!"

"Now, your mother's just trying to protect you," George explained. "Because she loves you. She doesn't want to see you make the same mistakes that we did."

"Yeah," Marty returned lightly. George turned his gaze away from his son, suddenly ashamed. No, nobody wanted to make the same mistakes that they had.

"All right, son," George stood. "Uh, why don't you just stay in here for the rest of the night? I'll try to calm your mother down."

"Yeah, right," Marty said sarcastically and turned onto his side. He knew that wasn't going to happen. His mother had the run of the household. His father was practically the family dog.

George didn't think much of the comment, though. He went to the door and opened it. "Goodnight, son." He didn't wait for a reply, instead sneaking out of the room and shutting the door softly behind him.

Marty was awoken from a restless sleep early the next morning by his mother's whining voice filtering through the wood of his door. He pulled himself out of bed reluctantly. He had had a difficult time finding peace of mind and his thoughts had yapped at him late into the night until it was too late to guarantee a full night's rest. Thankfully, it was a short week. Just one day of school left. Of course, he still had Saturday to look forward to. Hopefully he could avoid Needles and his gang of dweebs until then.

After he had cleaned himself up in the bathroom, Marty returned to his room, rubbing his face, begging his exhaust to abandon him and promising it that he'd go to bed early that night if it complied, and began searching for his backpack. Not against the wall where he usually kept it. He poked his head under his bed, flipping the unmade blanket away from his face, and scrounged around. No, it wasn't there.

Marty lifted his head from the bed and, resting on his knees, tried to remember where he had left it. He didn't remember having it when he got home. But he hadn't left it at the school. He remembered having it when Needles was chasing him. Then where did it ...

"Uh, no!" Marty whined aloud. He knew exactly where he had left it. And he wasn't looking forward to returning to the Doctor's laboratory. But he'd have to if he wanted to get the text books that had been issued to him the day before back. He'd have to go the day without them, though. He couldn't go in the morning if his father was dropping him off at school and he certainly couldn't explain what had happened to him on Thursday. Not that he couldn't, just that he wouldn't.

Marty stood, again rubbing his face. The day had just begun and already it felt like it would never end.

 Fortune was on Marty's heels the entire school day. No Needles. But that didn't mean no ridicule. The previous day's "fight" - which could only be called thus if quotes incased the word - was fresh on every Freshman's minds. Of course, their superiors didn't care one way or another about their subordinates. As far as the Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors were concerned, Marty was in the same rank of popularity as all Freshman - the bottom rank. But the more deplorable of his peers gave Marty pointed fingers, snickers, and the occasional shove all day long for his little pouting act outside of school on Thursday.

His reputation, it seemed, had been forever forged. He was "Cry-Baby McFly". "Cowardly Lion McFly."

"Chicken-shit McFly."

There was no way around it. The first and most notable display of character observed by his peers labeled him forever. His label was determined. His mark made. He was Chicken-Shit McFly.

Marty kept quiet through it all. Through the scorn and harassment he kept his mouth shut and let the harriers take their digs. As long as he made it through the day, there was no sense in picking a fight or standing up for himself. Besides, it would only get him into another doomed fight and further solidify his role as the school's gutless wonder.

He managed to make it until the end of the school day without so mach as a five second confrontation, quickly abandoned when Marty's meekness showed that he was indeed, and would forever be, reluctant to stand up for himself. With that proven, there was no need to draw out a confrontation, as long as the hector knew he'd have Marty to push around another day.

When his last class was over, Marty was up fast and to the school's exit as quickly as his short legs could carry him. His father had assured him that he'd be there to pick him up this time, but for once Marty was hoping not to see him. He needed to return to the Doctor's laboratory to pick up his book bag and he'd rather do it without his parents' knowledge. But Marty had to make sure, just in case his father did somehow stay true to his word. Otherwise, the report George would give to his mother would start up another hysterical rant about how irresponsible Marty was behaving and how he was going down the wrong path.

Marty hurried to the parking lot and took a landscape view around. He didn't see his father's car anywhere. At least this time he had a reason to be relieved that his father had neglected him.

As the yellow school buses began to pull into the school's parking lot, Marty cut across the pavement toward the town square. He reached the plaza within thirty minutes, walking at a brisk pace.

He left the square behind and crossed an alley toward John F. Kennedy Drive. He only knew the street because of the local Burger King where his mother would sometimes take him and his siblings to for their weekend lunches.

Marty paused before the pavement and gazed at the lonely building the Doctor called home. His heart thumped in his ears. Social situations tended to get him more nervous than the regular teenager. A hereditary trait, Marty had convinced himself, of his father's.

He took a deep breath and quickly crossed the street. He went to the gate surrounding the laboratory and pulled it open. As he moved to enter, a hand reached out and grabbed his arm. Marty jumped and spun around. His elbow struck something as he turned, and before he knew what had happened, he stood over a fallen Needles. The boy lay on the ground, his pals surrounding him and looking down at their leader, dumbfounded. Needles reached his finger to touch his nose and sneered up at Marty.

"You hit me!" Needles declared, clambering to his feet. "The chicken-shit hit me!"

"It-It was an accident!" Marty defended.

Needles grabbed hold of Marty's collar and pulled him forward. Marty was given a reminder of the lovely stink of broccoli and cheese, the day's lunch meal, through Needle's heavy breath. "Accident, McFly?" Needles laughed, high-pitched and aggravating to the core. He balled his fist and raised his arm. "Accident or not, you're about to get payback!"

Marty braced himself for the hit. He clenched his eyes shut and pulled his face away.

It came. Marty felt the impact on his left cheek. The bony knuckles connected and sent Marty sprawling backwards. He tripped and fell to the ground. He hadn't known what to expect. He had never actually been in a fight before. Now that he knew what it felt like to be hit, he was glad he had avoided such confrontations for so many years.

"Get up!" Needles commanded, striding forward. "I'm not done yet!"

Not done? For the first time, Marty realized he wasn't going to just go home with a bruised cheek or a simple black eye. Needles really wanted to beat him up! For no reason!

Marty quickly got to his feet and began walking backwards. He held his hands out, palms facing Needles. "No. I didn't do anything to you!"

"That's your opinion," Needles rejoined. "I've got a reputation to uphold, McFly. I don't let little chicken-shits get me into trouble. An' I 'specially don't let 'em hit me! Not without teaching them a lesson!"

Needles drew his hand back to strike at him again. Marty froze. He wasn't going to let himself get beat up, not if he could avoid it! He'd laid down for Needles once already. He had to defend himself!

"Hey, what's that?" Marty pointed over Needles' shoulder.

Needles took a swift glance behind him and Marty made his move. He rushed forward and shoved Needles as hard as he could. The young teen stumbled backwards, but his cronies caught him and helped prop him back up onto his feet. Needles scrunched his face and glared menacingly at Marty.

"You did it now, McFly!"

A pathetic, defeated expression covered Marty's face. That had been his best shot! And Needles was just more angry than ever, not hurt in the least! Marty quickly spun around and sprinted through the gate, interlacing his fingers with the wire mesh and pulling it shut behind him. Not that it would be much of a hinderance, but at least it would buy Marty a few moments.

He quickly rushed to the garage's side door and pounded on the wood. "Doctor! Doc! You gotta let me in! Please!"

Needles pulled open the gate and the group of harassers rushed toward Marty.

"Please!" Marty begged again, pounding on the door.

Suddenly, the door opened inward and Marty immediately stepped in and pushed the door shut behind him, carefully locking it. The Doctor stood beside him. He looked from the door to Marty, the most confounded expression the young teenager had ever seen masking his face.

"What in the name of Sir Isaac H. Newton is going on?" the Doctor demanded.

There was a pounding on the door. "What's that?" the Doctor looked to the wood.

He reached his hand out to unlock the door. Marty grabbed the Doctor's thick wrist and desperately tried to pull it away from the doorknob.

"Don't open it!" Marty cried.

Suddenly, the Doctor's dog stood up on all four legs and began yelping. It ran forward toward the door, right between the Doctor's legs, nearly making the scientist topple to the ground, and began barking at the wood.

"What it is, Einie?" the Doctor kneeled next to his pet. "Who's out there?"

"It's those guys from yesterday," Marty supplied.

The Doctor took the dog by its collar and led it away from the door. "What guys?"

"The ones who were chasing me!" Marty cried, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh," the Doctor said, directing his pet back into its bassinet. Then he went to a corner of the garage and picked up a backpack: Marty's backpack. "You know, Marty, sometimes punks like that only understand one thing."

"How'd you know my name?" Marty asked.

The Doctor reached into the teenager's backpack and slid out a red notebook. "It was on your schedule." He dropped the book back into the pack and handed it to Marty. "If you don't stand up for yourself, kid, you'll always be running."

"I'll keep that in mind," Marty said, as he accepted the pack. "Uhm, do you think you could get rid of those guys for me?"

The Doctor huffed. "Doubtful. Punks like that aren't exactly frightened by a sixty-two year old man. And I must admit, I'm in no position to be frightening hoodlums like that. These days, you never know what measures little delinquents like that'll go to."

"How'm I supposed to get out of here then?" Marty demanded.

"Y'know, I used to be a lot like you, kid," the Doctor said.

"That's really good to know," Marty rolled his eyes.

"A smart mouth, huh?" the Doctor smiled. "No wonder you get yourself into trouble."

"No," Marty shook his head. "I don't really ... I mean, I don't talk much in school."

"Shy?"

"Afraid is more like it," Marty answered.

"Ah," the Doctor grinned. He seemed to be enjoying this. "Y'know, kid, a great man once said: 'There is nothing to fear but fear itself.'"

"Tell that to my stomach," Marty quipped. "It does flip-flops whether I want to be afraid or not."

"Look, Marty," the Doctor kneeled down in front of the youth. "All you need is a little self-confidence. Then you wouldn't be afraid of punks like that and they wouldn't pick on you. You know, they say that bullies can smell fear."

"Yeah, but I can't fight Needles," Marty exhaled.

"Why not?" the Doctor demanded.

"Because I'm not strong. And Needles is."

"Is he? I bet he gets his kicks out of picking fights with people he thinks are weaker than him, huh? So how much fighting experience do you think that punk really has? Probably as much as you do. Besides, you look like a pretty sturdy kid."

"No, I'm not," Marty replied. "Needles is twice my size."

"Most of the time, I go with the adage 'Brains over brawn'. But the truth is, sometimes there are problems that the brain has to handle, and adversely, there are times that can only be settled with brawn. Listen, kid, if you're ever going to be able to believe in yourself, you're going to have stand up for yourself. When I was your age, I was pretty shy, too. I kept to myself. But as I got older, I realized that I didn't care what other people thought of me or my ideals. It only really matters what you think about yourself. Nuts to everyone else and what they think. Only you know you. They're just assuming or basing it on inaccurate or incomplete data. You know you're a good person, right? Then you should stick up for yourself. Even if it means putting yourself into a conceivably dangerous situation, it's always important to stand up for yourself and your beliefs. Understand?"

"Sounds easy, but it's not," Marty sighed.

"Listen, kid," the Doctor went to the side door. "You're going to have to stand up for yourself sometime. If you don't, you'll always be running from someone who wants to push you down so they can feel better about themselves. The sooner you realize that you're worth standing up for, the easier it'll be to gain some self-confidence."

The Doctor unlocked the door.

"What're you doing?" Marty cried with horror, his backpack slipping from his grasp and falling to the floor.

"Trust me, kid," the Doctor smiled devilishly. "You'll thank me." Then he pulled open the door and shoved Marty out.

The door snapped shut behind Marty before he even had a chance to turn around and rush back inside. He heard the Doctor lock the door behind him and knew he was screwed. He grasped desperately at the doorknob anyway, and tried to turn it. After a few moments of struggle, Marty finally surrendered and let his tense, chalk white hands drop. He slowly turned to face Needles and his gang. The detestable teenager stood less than a foot away from him, a sloppy grin across his face.

"Well, look who it is," Needles announced to his pack. "Guess the Doctor ain't gonna be the one to bail you out this time, huh, McFly? Don't worry, I'll leave enough pieces of ya' left for him to make an experiment out of."

Needles advanced toward Marty and the young teenager took a few swift steps back, toward the gate surrounding the garage.

"Please ..." Marty begged as he stepped backwards. "I-I'm sorry!"

"Too late for sorry's," Needles declared, and gave Marty a hard shove.

The teen fell back against the gate and instinctively clenched his fingers around the mesh.

"Let's go!" He shoved Marty again and the gate vibrated against the weight.

Marty could feel his eyes stinging. "Please!"

Needles raised his right arm and shoved it hard into Marty's face pushing it back against the gate. "Chicken-shit McFly! You see where bein' difficult gets ya'! You ain't never gonna rat on me again after I get done with ya', huh?"

Marty couldn't make much of a response with Needles' forearm pressed into his mouth. All he could utter was a meager "Doc" in hopes of getting the Doctor to change his mind and rescue him. However, the vocal entreaty was too muffled and hardly audible enough to attract the attention of the seemingly callous mad scientist.

Needles jerked his arm away from Marty's face and pressed it to his chest and leaned against the small teen with all his weight. He moved his face in closer to Marty and grinned widely. "You know you have it comin', McFly. You don't screw with me and get off scott free."

Marty suddenly couldn't control his emotions. Tears started streaming down his cheeks and a moaning whimper began to dig its way up his throat and escape his mouth, despite his best efforts to suppress it.

"Stop your blubberin', baby!" Needles commanded.

Marty would have been happy to comply had he a choice in the matter. Instead, he frantically tried to slip away from the pressure of Needle's arm against his chest. Sensing this, Needles reached out and grabbed Marty by the shoulders pushing him across the pavement toward the gate facing the Burger King. He gave him a hard shove and Marty tripped backwards and clashed with the gate.

"Have you ever seen anything more pathetic?" Needles demanded of his cronies without giving them a glance. "You're a real chicken-shit, you know that, McFly? Probably scared of your own shadow, huh? Chicken McFly!"

The creep braced his hands against Marty's chest and leaned in closer. He narrowed his eyes at Marty. "You're mine, McFly. All mine. Your little chicken ass is mine for the next four years, got it? An' it's all your own fault!"

Marty stared up at Needles, his mood suddenly changing. This wouldn't be it. Needles wouldn't just give him his beating and let bygones be bygones. It wouldn't end there. It never would. It would be with him all through high school. For the rest of his life! Just like the Doctor had said. He'd never stand up for himself. He'd become his father. He'd wimp out to everything, bow down to everyone. That would be his life.

Marty suddenly felt very angry. He felt like lashing out at everything near him! For a moment he went lax, hearing the meager voice in his head begging him not to make a stand. It sounded an awful lot like his father. He almost listened to it. But then another voice rose up: The Doctor's.

You're going to have to stand up for yourself sometime. If you don't, you'll always be running from someone who wants to push you down so they can feel better about themselves. The sooner you realize that you're worth standing up for, the easier it'll be to gain some self confidence.

"Little chicken McFly," Needles grinned widely, raising his fist to strike. "I'm gonna enjoy this."

Suddenly, without giving any warning whatever, Marty swatted away Needle's arm that had been pressed against his chest and started forward and shoved Needles with all his might. The teenager toppled backwards and fell to the ground. His cronies backed away from their leader as he fell to the pavement, and Needles stared up at the diminutive form before him which suddenly appeared much taller.

"He pushed me!" Needles exclaimed, shocked. He scurried to his feet and advanced toward Marty, his face twisting into an uneven glower. "The little chicken pushed me!"

Marty, though, didn't step back. Instead, for the first time in his life, he took a step forward to meet his opponent. He stared up at Needles through determined eyes and pointed directly at his chest. "Nobody calls me chicken."

Marty swung his right fist and instantly sent Needles to the ground.

For a moment, the dazed teenager didn't get up. Then he turned onto his back and sat up straight, glaring at Marty. Blood was trickling down his nose and through watery eyes he called to his cohorts in a wavering voice: "Get 'im!"

His boys obeyed, immediately advancing upon Marty. Marty didn't back away, instead bracing himself to meet his assailants. They surrounded him and began to lash out. Marty put up his best fight, knocking a few of the kids away, but the grouped assault was too much for him to handle.

As fists were raised to strike, there suddenly came a loud and grating sound exploding from a few feet behind. It was a siren, and suddenly lights were flashing red and blue from inside the Doctor's laboratory.

Marty's attackers instantly relinquished their assault. From just beyond the gate, a few civilians emerged from the Burger King and stepped into the parking lot to see what all the commotion was. The three goons backed away from Marty and, grasping desperately to get their leader to his feet, shouted: "Let's get outta here!"

Needles, insanely confused as to what was happening, obeyed. He scampered to his feet and sprinted after his lackeys. The four boys escaped through the gate and rushed to pick up their bikes, which laid flat on the pavement outside the Burger King, climbed on, and rode off down the street.

After a few moments more, the siren went dead and the lights stopped flashing. Marty slowly stood up from the awkward position against the gate that his harasses had forced him into and moved unsteadily forward toward the garage. From the side door appeared the Doctor, who went to meet Marty half-way.

"You all right, kid?" the Doctor asked, worry in his eyes.

"Yeah," Marty nodded, as if just realizing it. "They didn't even get a shot off!"

The Doctor released a relieved sigh. "When I said stand up for yourself, I didn't mean to get yourself into situations that you can't possibly defend yourself against!"

"What was I supposed to do?" Marty demanded. "You tossed me out to face four guys twice my size!"

"And you held up pretty well," the Doctor acknowledged. "Although, at some point I was hoping you'd switch to a brains strategy. Like I said, brawn'll only take you so far."

Marty shrugged. He still wasn't sure what the Doctor expected him to do, cornered against the gate like he was, but he didn't further his doubts. "What's with the alarm?"

"Set it up a couple years ago when some hoodlums broke in and trashed the place," the Doctor answered. "Haven't had a problem since. Of course, the alarm doesn't work if I leave the door unlocked. But it can be activated manually."

"That's a relief," Marty sighed, only half-sarcasm in his tone.

"Besides, you didn't think I'd send you out there with the odds so highly stacked against you? I may be mad, but I'm not crazy!" the Doctor exclaimed and chuckled at his own little joke. "And besides, the intent wasn't for you to get mauled. There was supposed to be a lesson within all that. Hopefully, you learned it."

Marty thought about if for a moment. "I guess," he shrugged.

The Doctor stared down at Marty, expecting an explanation.

"I guess I learned that I should stand up for myself," the teenager supplied. "Because if I don't, then everyone'll walk right over me for the rest of my life."

"And?" the Doctor demanded.

"And?"

"The point isn't that you should learn to stand up for yourself," the Doctor answered. "The point is to learn that you deserve to stand up for yourself! Kid, no matter what anyone says, you deserve as much credit as anyone else, probably more! You're worth as much human respect and dignity as those punks, and if they're not going to give it to you, then you should at least give it to yourself. Understand?"

"Yeah," Marty nodded, being completely honest. "I got it, Doc."

"Good," the Doctor said, smiling.

Marty nodded his head once and the two stood in the middle of the pavement in awkward silence for a few moments.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Marty," the Doctor supplied as a pardon. "I'll see you around."

He turned to return to the garage. As he made his way to the door, Marty suddenly shouted after him: "My backpack!"

The Doctor spun around to face the young teenager. "That's right!"

Marty hastened to catch up to the scientist and followed him into the garage. The Doctor picked up the teenager's backpack from the floor and handed it to him. "There you are, kid."

Marty accepted his pack and the scientist turned his view away from Marty and went to his table to fumble around with some gizmos. Marty swung his backpack onto his shoulder and turned to leave, but didn't step forward. He turned back to look at the Doctor and called: "Hey, Doc?"

Doc turned around at the request for attention. "Yeah?"

"You play that guitar over there?" Marty asked, motioning toward the stringed instrument that sat in its stand a few feet away.

"Not much," Doc admitted. "It's mostly for show. I never really learned how to play. Although, I do know a few cords."

"Yeah?" Marty asked, moving toward the guitar. "Maybe you could teach me some stuff."

Doc followed the teenager to the guitar stand. "It wouldn't be inconceivable," he answered. "Do you have a guitar?"

"No," Marty said, kneeling down to examine the instrument. "I've never played one before. But I really want to learn. Do you think I could use yours when you show me?"

"Tell you what," Doc said, picking the guitar up by its neck and lifting it from its stand. "You keep it."

Marty stood. "What? No way! I couldn't take that from you!"

"Go ahead," Doc said, pushing it into Marty's arms. "It's not a bad guitar. It's a Chiquita. I know yellow might not be your favorite color ..."

Marty examined the guitar for a moment. "Tell you what, Doc," he said. "I'll keep it, but I'll leave it here. My mom would go nuts and ask me twenty questions about where it came from, anyway. Then I'll come over after school and practice with you. Okay?"

Doc considered it. "All right," he agreed.

Marty sat the guitar back into its stand. "Okay," he said, "so, uhm, I'll see you on Monday then."

Doc nodded. "Sounds fine."

Marty moved to exit, but again stopped. He turned to look at Doc, who had yet to turn his gaze from the kid.

"What're you making?" Marty inquired, gesturing toward the gadgets strewn about Doc's work table.

"Oh, just something for this big project I'm working on," Doc answered vaguely.

"What kind of project?" Marty asked, going to the table.

Doc hesitated to answer. "It's a secret," he said after a moment.

Marty shrugged. "Can I help?"

The scientist considered it. "I suppose so. See that red toolbox over there?"

"Yeah," Marty said, picking out the chest of tools from Doc's gaze.

"When I ask for something, hand it over," Doc said.

"Okay," Marty agreed. He went to the toolbox and pulled open the shelves. "Ready."

"Hand me a phillips head screwdriver."

"Is that the one with the flat head?"

"Nope," Doc answered. "The one with the cross."

Marty fished out the screwdriver and held it out to Doc. "Is that one big enough?"

"Plenty," Doc accepted the tool. He tightened a screw on the contraption before him, then said: "Now how about a three-quarter wrench?"

Marty found that and handed it to him. "Here."

Doc accepted it and went to work on tightening a bolt. "You know, kid, you're a pretty good helper. I could use an assistant in the lab."

Marty stood to look over the scientist's work. "I could help you after we're done practicing on the guitar," Marty suggested. "I could come over on the weekends, too, if my mom lets me."

"I'd like that," Doc glanced at the teenager and smiled. "Could always use a couple extra hands around this place. Seems like I never have enough to get everything done that I want to during the course of a day! Of course, I wouldn't feel right unless I gave you some monetary compensation. How does ten bucks a week sound? Then you can go out and buy your own guitar."

"Okay," Marty agreed, still watching the scientist toil over the gizmo before him. After a few moments, Marty asked: "Hey, Doc?"

"Huh?"

"Do you think if I practice a lot at the guitar that I could become a rich rock star?" Marty inquired.

Doc looked to the lad and smiled. He put his hand to the kid's head and ruffled his hair. "Marty, if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything!"

Marty beamed. "I'm gonna work on that flying thing, too."

Doc chuckled. "Good luck on that one, kid! But I think you'd be better off sticking to music."

Marty nodded his agreement. "Hey, Doc," he spoke after a moment of silence, "you don't know anything about skateboards, do you?"

"Wow," Jennifer stood up straight from her position leaning against Marty's truck. "If you hadn't met Doc you'd be a completely different person! Was your dad really like that before ... Before you changed things?"

"Yeah," Marty nodded. "I swear, Jen, I thought I'd end up the same way. I would have, if I hadn't met Doc. He changed my life!"

"No wonder he means so much to you!" Jennifer exclaimed. "I bet he owes a lot to you, too."

Marty snorted dubiously. "I don't think so, Jen. Definitely not as much as I owe him. He taught me to believe in myself. To give myself a chance!"

Marty could feel his throat tightening up. "I'm gonna miss him, Jen. He was best my friend."

Jennifer quickly took Marty into her arms. "It's okay, Marty! I know! He was like a father to you! You really loved him!"

"I just don't know what I'm gonna do now!" Marty managed through a wavering voice and watery eyes. "Everything'll be different!"

"I know," Jen replied, trying to comfort her boyfriend. "But Marty, you shouldn't try to forget. You should try to remember. Because if you forget ..."

"I know, Jen. I don't want to forget. I just don't want to remember right now. It's still too recent to think about the past. Let me just deal with the now."

"Okay," Jennifer conceded. "Besides, it's better to deal with the present. Best not to live in the past, you know?"

Marty wiped away some tears and managed a weak smile. "Better than anyone."

Jennifer grinned. "Come on, let's get this stuff packed up and head home."

Marty nodded and Jennifer picked up an empty box and moved back to the train tracks. Marty lingered for a moment, then reached into the back of his truck and picked up the framed picture Doc had given him. He stared at it for a long moment.

"You taught me everything, Doc," Marty said to the picture. "When my dad wasn't there, you were. You gave me my wings."

Marty set the picture back into the truck, then picked out a folded box and moved to the train tracks to finish his task. "I promise, Doc," he whispered aloud, "whatever was going to happen to me in the future, I'm not gonna let it. I'm gonna fly to the top, Doc.

"I'm gonna fly."