Saturday, December 8th, 1888

" Emmett? Emmett?" Clara murmured as she awoke uncharacteristically early that morning.

The bright yellow sun streamed in through the window, for the curtains had been left open. She sat up, slowly and difficultly. Emmett's side of the bed had been tousled but he was not there. He'd already gotten up and gone to work early. He'd been doing this a lot recently and Clara had no idea why. She knew that he wasn't a people person and sometimes he needed time alone to himself. But the thing was he adored being home with his family and with Jules. It was true that Clara still hadn't gotten over her sickness and she was complaining a lot, but was she really that unbearable to live with? She slid out of bed, still groggy from her night's sleep, and went to check on Jules in the next room. He was still sound asleep, tangled in the bed sheets, and gently snoring with his thumb glued to his mouth. Clara smiled warmly and she leant in to give him a morning kiss. He groaned and rolled over and gradually woke up.

" Where's Dada?" he asked.

" At work, baby. He has a lot to do today," she whispered softly and kissed him. " Come on, let's go eat breakfast."

Clara had planned to cook a hot meal for breakfast but the sharp, agonising pain in her back made it impossible to even stand, and cooking in a hot kitchen would most likely make it worse. In the end, she made Jules a sandwich with jam that her mother had sent her in the mail, and for herself, she didn't have as much as a bite. She noticed that whenever she ate a meal, she would throw it back up and then she would feel fine. And in this particular situation, she felt worrying a young child was unnecessary. Later when they were finished, she helped Jules get dressed and she changed clothes in the privacy of her own bedroom. She hoped the pain was nothing and she needed to purchase groceries so she ignored it, but not completely.

Because of the state she had put herself in, she thought it best to take Jules with her to the market. The market was a fairly busy place, where men were shouting at the top of their lungs, trying to convince people why they should buy their wares. Jules always enjoyed hearing them, smelling all sorts of smells and seeing interesting sights. His mother would often let him to go to these stalls but not that afternoon. She stampeded towards the vegetable stand, eager to get back home, making it difficult for the two year old to keep up. The pain shooting down Clara's back was getting worse and more intense. Every five minutes, she counted, knowing that at just twenty nine weeks, she had gone into labour. Silently she picked out her vegetables and Mr. Taylor the greengrocer put them into a bag for her. Though disappointed that he didn't get to do what he wanted, Jules became distracted by an old, funny looking donkey which caused him to get the giggles.

" What's the little lad sniggering at?" Mr. Taylor smiled as Clara paid him the correct amount of money.

She turned her head and looked down at him. " Oh, I don't know," she sighed.

" Not sleeping right, are we?" Clara shrugged in response. " Well, you know what works for me?" he continued. " A glass of the finest red wine. Puts me right out."

" I appreciate your concern but I'm not in the condition to drink wine." Vaguely, she gestured to her belly and as it became apparent to the greengrocer, he couldn't help but apologise.

" Oh, I apologise sincerely, my dear madam!" he cried.

The former schoolteacher raised her hand to silence him. " It's perfectly all right, sir. Jules, come on, darling!" she called. She picked up her bag, took her child-son by the hand and began to head down to Doc's barn. She bent down, with difficulty, and asked him, " How would you like to see Dada at work?"

Jules' tiny round face instantly lit up and he cheered. He'd always wanted to see his father hard at work though he was never allowed to. Clara walked swiftly down the dusty road, not bothering to say sorry to people she bumped into. Just as the barn came into sight, she was struck down by an intense contraction. Releasing a loud moan, she doubled over and collapsed to her knees, tightly clutching her belly. Jules' large brown eyes widened in fear; he was too young to understand. He patted her on the back, hoping it would do some good.

" It's OK," she murmured breathlessly. " Mama's OK. Listen, I want you to be a big boy and get your dad for me. Can you do that?"

The toddler nodded, an expression of determination frozen on his face. He got to his feet and dashed to the door as fast as his short legs could carry him. Initially, he tried to push it open, even when he put all of his strength into it, he was just too little. He shuffled his feet and kicked the ground in frustration. But as he turned back to his mother, he saw how fragile she looked, despite not fully understanding why. He knew he had to try, for her sake.

" DADA!" he belted out, frantically rapping on the door. " Dada!" he screamed again, his fists beginning to feel sore from banging against the wood.

Just when he was about to give up hope, the Doc pulled the door open, looking very confused and annoyed. His forehead, soaked in sweat, glistened in the afternoon sun. He didn't noticed Jules at first, thinking it must have been pesky pranksters acting foolish. When he heard a faint whimper, his gaze slid down to Jules' height.

" Hey, little man. Where's your mom? You know you can't just wander off like that!" he lectured, though he was happy to see him.

Jules didn't answer. Instead, he pointed to where Clara was kneeling. The scientist gasped, immediately guessing what was happening. He rushed over, wanting to be her hero, and half carried her to the safety of the barn. There, he made her comfortable in a bed of hay and while she suffered the excruciating agony of labour, he hurried to the doctor's office to alert Dr. Simpson. He called off all appointments and with Emmett and Jules, he ran at top speed through town. The adrenaline pumping through him, Dr. Simpson burst in as Clara writhed in pain.

" How far along is she?" he ordered.

" About, uh, s-seven months," the Doc answered nervously.

Dr. Simpson grew immensely worried and Emmett knew that. He knew he had to stay calm – two lives could be at stake and he would never forgive himself if everything spiralled out of control. " Ah, OK. I can't guarantee the baby's safety so you'd better prepare yourselves."

" What?" gasped Clara.

As Dr. Simpson told her what was going on, the Doc didn't hear a word. He was too busy being wrapped up in his own inventive brain to notice anything in his surroundings. Premature babies were born every year, every day in fact. His own would be dead in a matter of minutes, because the time period didn't have the technology in order to save it. It didn't seem fair. But what if…? Yes! That's it!

" Emmett," said the doctor. " I know this is hard but your family needs you to be strong."

" Wait…"

" Mr. Brown?"

Doc didn't answer. His brain was focused on building a machine that might possibly save the infant's life. So while Dr. Simpson tended to Clara, Emmett completely blocked everything as he worked hard, rushing around the barn to collect the tools and materials he needed. He was finished five or six hours later, and he told the doctor that when the baby arrived, he needed to hook him or her up to the machine, which would assist their breathing.

" You're insane!" the doctor blurted out after Emmett had explained it to him.

" My child's life is at stake. It will work. Believe me!"

" Better do what he says! He's crazy!" Clara butted in, wriggling and grunting in pain. " Emmett, come here a moment," she breathed.

He did as he was told. He squeezed her hand in support and smiled. " What? Hmm? You want anything?"

" I don't want to be some…" She was cut off by labour pains. " Virgin Mary delivering my baby in a barn! It's so…not what I planned!"

As Clara struggled to control her breathing, a small sad smile spread across Doc's face and he thought of Marty, waiting for him in the year 1985. " You can't plan…You know, you can't plan things like this. You just have to…suck it up," he sighed. He rarely used that phrase, as he thought slang was beneath him, but Marty had used it on several occasions.

" Uh, Mr. Brown, would you mind taking Jules home? I need full concentration and it's a bit difficult with a young child here," the good Dr. Simpson interrupted. " I'm sorry, Emmett," he added gloomily. " You won't be able to be there when the baby's born. I'm sorry," he said again.

Through all the pain she was forced to endure, Clara smiled weakly as if to say, " I'll be all right. You've got suck it up."

Without another word, Emmett picked up the sleeping toddler and gently put his tiny head against his shoulder. Jules murmured in his sleep and wriggled, causing his father smiled. He walked out of the door, the winter air sending a chill in his direction. It was starting to get dark and everyone was packing up and going home for the evening. They, particularly the men, wore cheerful expressions on their faces, happy to go home to a warm, cosy house with dinner waiting for them on the table. The Doc sighed. He wouldn't have that tonight. As he set off home, he began to think of the time when he was infinitely unhappy in the 1980's. He had no money to speak of, no job, no friends, no relationship, no home. No nothing. He couldn't help thinking that he was slowly reverting back to that. He slipped in through the front door, slunk upstairs to his bedroom. He saw that the bed had been unmade. Clara must have been in labour all day, poor girl. Gently, he laid Jules down on the left side of the bed and after he pulled off his shoes and socks, Doc himself laid down to go to sleep. He turned over to face Jules. Doc's mind was cast back to the day he was born and he remembered how thrilled he was to become a father. He then knew that life would never be like before. He leant forward and planted a loving kiss on the little boy's forehead and with that, he drifted off into a deep sleep.