August, 1986

Doc hated having to lie to George and Lorraine—hated having to tell them that, in spite of finding the skateboard (which he'd claimed he'd spotted at a Lost & Found, not wanting them to end up near the ravine and getting dragged into the whole mess with Dr. Egret), he still had no idea what had happened to their youngest child. But the truth wasn't any better, let alone believable.

And as much as Doc wanted to get away and look for Marty near the ravine, he knew he had to, at least, say something to try to get George and Lorraine to have some hope; Clara also sensed this—she and Lorraine had taken over the drawing room, with Clara trying to encourage her to hold on to the hope that Marty would find his way back to them.

And Doc watched George pace the hall, running a hand through his hair just like Marty did when he was upset about something.

"I just feel so helpless…" George was saying. "Something's happened to my son, and I can't do anything about it…!"

"Marty is a streetwise and resourceful young man," Doc reminded him. "You have yourself and Lorraine to thank for that—if there's a way out of his predicament, he'll find it."

"We have you to thank for that, too, Doctor—maybe even more than ourselves," George sighed. "…Sometimes, I feel like there's something of a disconnect between Marty and us. I'm sure it's nothing, but there are times when he'll be preoccupied, thinking about something, and no matter how hard we encourage him to tell us what's wrong, he won't say a word."

"That's par for the course with any teenager," Doc bluffed, knowing exactly why Marty was acting like that. "There was a disconnect between my father and myself when I was a teen—and I'm sure there'll be one between myself and my boys once they get to be that age…" He trailed off, making a face—he was not looking forward to that.

"It runs deeper—at least it feels that way, sometimes…" George sighed. "Sometimes, I have these recurring dreams of… us, being unhappier—I'm stuck working for Biff and miserable, Lorraine has a drinking problem, Dave and Linda aren't able to go to college, and Marty just seems so quiet and withdrawn from us. And as much as I want to dismiss them as dreams, sometimes I wonder if Marty has those same dreams, too; some days, he'll be more distant than others—quiet and withdrawn, just like in the dream." He ran a hand through his hair again, missing the very awkward look on Doc's face. "I thought Lorraine and I were doing the right thing by convincing him to go to college as a backup plan—I would love to see him succeed in his music, but, like I told him, a safety net is a good idea. He must have been too wrapped up in thinking about it—maybe he had an accident." He sighed. "Lorraine and I shouldn't have talked him out of seeing you last evening," he realized. "He'd have been safer here."

"…I'm sorry?" Doc asked, confused by this. "Did you object to any of the advice I've given Marty in the past?"

"No, not at all, Doctor!" George assured him. "You've been a real rock for Marty—we can't thank you enough for that! It's just that, now that you've got a family of your own, we didn't think it would be prudent for Marty to keep dropping by here to ask about every little thing."

Doc blinked. So, that was why Marty hadn't dropped by as often as he'd used to during previous summers?

"Oh, George," he sighed. "Marty is always welcome here, no matter the reason. I would never mind if…"

Doc trailed off as he heard a familiar-sounding tune coming from the kitchen—

"…Tommy's got his six-string in hock…"

That voice… that line… that melody… that wailing electric guitar… He'd heard that before—long, long ago…

"Excuse me," he managed to say to George, just before scrambling to the kitchen.

Jules and Verne gave a slight start to see him barrel in like that, the both of them looking sheepish as they saw him stare at the radio.

"Sorry…" Jules offered. "But since Mother wanted the drawing room to speak with Mrs. McFly, we thought we could listen to the radio in here instead."

"It was Jules's idea," Verne added, prompting his brother to give him a glare. "Do you want us to turn it off…?"

"No, no, no," Doc said, still staring at the radio. "…I've heard this song before."

"It's been on the radio a lot in the last few days," Jules pointed out.

"Maybe, but I heard this song back in 1932!" Doc recalled.

Jules and Verne exchanged glances.

"It's brand new," Verne informed him. "Marty brought the tape over the other day, remember? He'd just got it."

"Marty…?" Doc repeated. The intangible barrier that had been holding back the ripple effect now, suddenly gave way—and Doc's new memories now set in his consciousness. "…I'd tripped over Marty—back when I was walking by the ravine! …Great Scott…!"

He bolted from the kitchen, calling for Clara. She darted out from the drawing room, and he took her aside, making sure that George and Lorraine couldn't hear.

"Clara—that song! Do you hear that song?" he asked, quietly, waving towards the kitchen, where "Livin' on a Prayer" had just reached the final chorus.

"…Yes," she said, confused. "But I don't see what—"

"That's a new song from that album Marty had just bought the other day—but I heard that song in 1932!"

"But, Emmett, that's not possible!" Clara pointed out. "Unless…" Her eyes widened, and she grabbed at his arms.

"Marty!" they both exclaimed, in an undertone.

"I remember now—when I took that walk by the ravine, I saw that shimmering, but I was so deep in thought, I didn't pay much attention to it," Doc recalled. "And then I tripped—over Marty. He couldn't remember anything other than his name."

"Amnesia," Clara realized. "That's why he didn't send word back to us—he can't remember us!"

"It's obvious now—he tried to get away from Egret, fell off of his skateboard and hit his head, either just before or just after he got sent back through time," Doc said. "…And I put my college admissions letters aside to help him once I found him. …Oh, no…"

"What?"

"It took me a lot of thinking before I decided on going to Caltech," Doc fretted. "Marty showing up out of the blue like this will lessen the time I have to think about it; it might change my choice—my entire career path! That could alter everything—my studying quantum physics, my moving back to Brown Mansion, my developing the flux capacitor after hitting my head on the sink… everything!"

Clara bit her lip.

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, that's obvious—go to 1932 and get Marty back here so my younger self can focus on choosing a college."

"…Emmett, it won't be that easy—you have to think this through carefully," Clara said. "First of all, Marty won't remember you."

"I have the sleep-wave inducer from 2015; I'd hate to use it on him, but if I don't have a choice—"

"Secondly, what about you—the younger you?"

"What about him—er, me?"

Clara gave him a look.

"Emmett, do you really think that your younger self is just going to accept Marty disappearing like that—especially when he's got amnesia?" she asked. "I know you, Emmett—you're going to drop everything to find him, just like you're doing now."

Doc had to ponder over his reply to that.

"It's not as though I can explain to my past self that Marty needs to go back to the future!" he pointed out.

"Why not?"

"…That's breaking the biggest of the Laws of Time—you're not supposed to have any contact with your other selves when time-traveling!" Doc pointed out.

"Yes, that law is right up there with the one that explains how you're not supposed to change established time—like rescuing teachers destined to fall off ravines, and then marrying them and having children with them."

"…I… er… …You've got a good point," he admitted. "…Come to think of it, Marty claims that my past self met an alternate version of me once—he used 'Carl Sagan' as a pseudonym."

"Do you remember that?"

"Vaguely; I was more focused on my project for the Expo anyway," Doc admitted. "But you're right—my past self would panic if Marty vanished while amnesiac. I just hope I can find some way of explaining it without revealing too much about the future."

"I have all the faith in the world that you'll manage it," Clara said, confidently. "Tell George to come to the drawing room—I'll look after him and Lorraine until you get back."

"Right," Doc said. "I doubt Egret knows about you and the boys—she'd have made a move already if she had. But, just in case…"

"…I know where the rifle is," Clara finished. "Good luck, Emmett."

Doc nodded, and he kissed her goodbye before heading out to the hall, where George was still pacing.

"George, I'm sorry, but I need to step out for a minute; something's come up, but Clara wants to see you in the drawing room—"

"It's about Marty, isn't it?" George realized. "You wouldn't be running out now unless you knew something—please, can you tell me?"

Doc sighed again, trying to find the right words.

"George, the last thing I would want to do is give you any false hopes," he said, after a moment. "Right now, you need to remain strong—for yourself, and for Lorraine."

George didn't like it, but he knew there would be no dissuading Doc.

"…You know, back in May, when we'd thought you'd gone missing for a bit, Marty was all determined to find you, too. …He was wearing this odd outfit—the kind you'd see people wear in the '30s. He said it was for a costume…"

Doc froze. He'd always suspected that George might be the one to have made or eventually make the time-travel connection; he was a sci-fi writer, after all—this was all something he would've thought about.

"…What are you trying to say, George?" he asked.

"…I don't really know," George admitted. "But one thing I do know—and I can't explain how I know—is that I think that you might be the only one capable of finding Marty. At this point, I don't think I should be caring how. It doesn't matter. Dr. Brown, do whatever you have to, but please find my son."

Doc nodded, and headed out to the DeLorean.

June, 1932

After Marty had been able to flawlessly recreate the acoustic chords of "Wanted Dead or Alive," and sing the lyrics, Emmett had decided that music seemed to be the key to Marty's memory.

"You are obviously highly talented when it comes to music," Emmett pointed out. "Given that you had guitar picks in your pocket, you obviously do this as a hobby—I can, therefore, presume that you enjoy it."

"I mean… I guess so," Marty said. "I was having fun singing just now."

"Then we should keep going at it from this angle," Emmett said, glancing back at his brain diagram. "If the amygdala is connected to emotions and long-term memories, then the positive emotions should help with your recovery. I hope. I mean, I've heard that shocking and painful emotions are effective, but I'd rather not try that unless we've got no other choice."

"Yeah, I appreciate that," Marty said, with a lopsided smile. "And thanks again for the guitar."

"Actually, it was one of the songs you were talking about that gave me the idea," Emmett admitted.

"Oh, you did hear it!?" Marty asked.

"The first side of it," Emmett replied.

"That's the best side," Marty assured him. "Well, what did you think?"

"Well…" Emmett said. "It was, um… interesting. I did like the one about Tommy and Gina, I will admit—that's what gave me the idea to get the guitar for you, actually." He sighed. "I'll be honest with you, Marty—it's not really the kind of music I'd listen to. But I can appreciate that you like it—it clearly means a lot to you, so I can listen to it with that in mind."

"That's fair," Marty said. "I'm glad you gave it a chance. So, what kind of music do you listen to?"

"Jazz and swing," Emmett replied, with a grin. "You know—Cab Calloway and Bing Crosby?"

Marty nodded, vaguely remembering the names.

"I'm sure I've heard them at some point," he mused. "I know I've definitely heard Bing Crosby—he did that Christmas duet with David Bowie!"

Emmett gave him a blank look.

"I must've missed that one," he admitted.

"Yeah? I'm sure it's around somewhere. But I get what you're saying," Marty went on. "And I appreciate you giving it a try." He smiled. "You know, you saying that you don't mind listening to it since you know I like it reminds me of what my old man would say."

"Yeah?" Emmett asked, realizing that Marty was remembering something on his own. "Go on."

"My kind of music isn't what he listens to, either, but he'll listen to it if I'm there in the room, playing it on the boom box," Marty said.

"What's his name?" Emmett prompted. If Marty was beginning to recall things, he wanted to help his memory along.

Marty tried to focus; odd, though—he seemed to have two very different mental images of his father; one a meek pushover, but then a stronger, more confident man…

"George…" he said, after a moment. "His name is George McFly."

"McFly!?" Emmett exclaimed. "As in… related to Artie McFly? …You know, I thought there was a resemblance between the two of you!"

"Uhhh… maybe? I can't—"

"Remember, that's right," Emmett sighed. "Well, there's an easy way to find out—I can just ask him. We can try that if we don't get any farther with the guitar."

"Sure," Marty said, with a shrug. He strummed a few more chords before pausing. "Hey, Emmett?"

"Yeah?"

"…Was there anything in the paper about me going missing?"

"Not in the early edition, no," Emmett sighed. "Maybe it'll be in the later edition—sometimes it takes a bit of time."

"…I don't even remember how long I've been gone," Marty said. "It's been at least a half-day—most likely more. But you would think someone would've noticed I was missing by now. …Jeez, is anyone even looking for me?"

"I'm sure they are!" Emmett exclaimed. "You just mentioned your pop!"

"Yeah, well…" Marty said, recalling the two different memories of his father—one that he clearly did not feel as close to. "Doesn't mean that we'd always get along. Maybe being on my own was something one or both of us wanted."

Emmett could definitely sympathize.

"You know, I know how you feel—you don't remember this, either, but my pop and I kept clashing over my career choices. You actually helped smooth things out between us the last time you were here—maybe I can do the same for you and your pop, if it comes to that," he offered. "But we don't know for sure—not until you get your memory back, so let's focus on that problem for now."

"Right," Marty sighed. "And what happens if I don't?"

"I don't believe that'll be an issue—especially since you've been remembering bits and pieces since I've found you," Emmett assured him. "But I already promised you I'd help you through this, and I meant that—no matter how long it takes. I'm not going to let you face this alone."

"…Thanks, Emmett." Marty strummed a few more chords, quietly singing before a new thought came to him. "Do you play any instruments?"

"Me?" Emmett scoffed. "Ha! I wish—I played the saxophone in the school concert band my freshman year, but I dropped the band for science club after that. I still have the saxophone, though."

"Really? Bring it out—we can have a jam session!"

"…This was years ago, Marty; I really don't think—"

"Aww, come on!" Marty exclaimed.

"Well… If there's a chance it'll help your memory, I'll give it a try," Emmett sighed, taking a saxophone case from one of the lab shelves. "But don't expect anything spectacular—like I said, it's been years, and I was never as good as you."

He took the saxophone out of the case and glanced at it for a moment before attempting to play a scale on it; the scale wasn't exactly on key, and the upper note ended up morphing into a squeak.

Embarrassed, Emmett put the saxophone back in the case before glancing sheepishly at Marty.

"I told you…"

"Nah, Emmett, that wasn't bad," Marty insisted. "That was just…"

"…Sounding like a drunken goose—you can say it."

"No!" Marty insisted. "It's just a lack of practice, Emmett! …Well, that, and I'm willing to bet that you need some new reeds. Here, let me see…" Marty gently put the guitar back in its case before walking over to Emmett and picking up the saxophone. "Yup, this reed is so old and cracked—and it doesn't even look like the right sized reed, either! Get yourself some proper reeds, actually practice it, and you'll be serenading the girls at whatever college you end up going to!"

Emmett arched an eyebrow, not exactly buying it—but he wasn't going to discount it entirely, either.

"Well, I'll tell you what…" he said. "I wanted to ask Artie about whether he knows your pop or not; it's almost noon, so he'll be visiting Trixie at the music store during his lunch break. I can buy the reeds from Trixie and ask Artie all at once. You wanna go, too? We can grab lunch for ourselves on the way back—my treat."

Marty shrugged.

"Sure, I'm in," he said. "But once I get my memory back, you gotta let me buy something for you for a change!"

And with that, the two headed for downtown.