For what seemed to be ages, Dean could only stand in the center of the TARDIS and stare, pivoting in slow circles. Clara watched him with an amused sort of smile on her face.
"When you said bigger in the inside, I didn't imagine this," Dean breathed.
Clara said knowingly, "You haven't seen the half of it!"
"Leave the boy alone, Clara," The Doctor insisted before changing the subject. "So Dean, this orphanage of yours—what was it called?"
"Saint John's Good Children's Home. Didn't quite live up to the name," Dean scoffed.
"Then that's where we're headed!" The Doctor declared. He toyed with the control panel, flipping switches and turning dials as enthusiastically as a little boy playing with a new train set. Dean hoped he knew what he was doing.
The TARDIS careened back and forth, then skidded to a less-than-graceful halt. Dean flung open the door, and to his surprise, he stepped outside to find the squat stone building he hated with a passion standing before him, its dreary gray walls shiny from the rain, just as they always were.
Clara followed Dean out, examining him carefully. "I take it we found the right place?"
Dean crossed his arms. "You didn't have to bring me back here."
The Doctor slapped Dean on the back. "'Course we did. This is the best place to start looking for answers. If you turn up here every time you get sent back in time, then there has to be a reason."
A harsh voice, sharp and high and all-too-familiar, made Dean jump. "Harper! What are you doing out here? And who are these people you're with? They aren't more of your delinquent friends, are they?"
A wiry old woman with blond hair in a bun so tight it pulled her skin back came marching up the walkway. She seized Dean's arm and dug in her nails, making him wince. She gave The Doctor a contemptuous glare.
"Are you planning another escape?" She demanded, rounding on Dean, her beady black eyes boring into him.
"No, Ms. Hollingsworth," Dean grumbled.
"I can explain," The Doctor cut in swiftly, "You see, my assistant and I are from the Board of Inspecting Inspectors from the Board of America, and we're here to inspect the premises, since we're inspectors and all." He held up a small square of paper laminated inside a black case, a hint of mischief in his eyes. Ms. Hollingsworth immediately loosened her grip on Dean.
"Of course," she said warmly, "come on in." She strode up the walkway, half-dragging Dean along with her.
"As you can see, Inspectors," she proclaimed, throwing open the door. "Here at St. John's, we keep our facility nice and proper, to make the children feel at home."
The Doctor pretended to listen as he opened a china bowl full of sugar on the kitchen table and sprinkled a handful onto his tongue. He then swallowed and proceeded to ask, "So Ms. Hollingsworth, do you run this facility all on your own?"
Ms. Hollingsworth's voice turned colder as she replied, "I'm afraid I will soon enough. My husband used to help me, but sadly, he doesn't have much time left."
"May we talk to him?" The Doctor looked sympathetic. Ms. Hollingsworth looked like she was going to snap at him, but before she could respond, The Doctor grabbed both Dean and Clara and pulled them away.
"Where are we headed?" Dean stumbled over his own feet trying to keep up with The Doctor.
"To find Mr. Hollingsworth!" The Doctor cried. "Have you been paying attention? The Missus got defensive when I asked to speak to him, so that must mean they're hiding something. Dean, you've never met Mr. Hollingsworth, have you?"
"No. I didn't even know Ms. Hollingsworth was a Missus," Dean admitted.
"Exactly, something's wrong. You've lived here long enough, you should have met him by now. So where is he?"
Ms. Hollingsworth pursued them down the hallway, shouting, "You can't speak with him! He's incredibly sick, and he doesn't like visitors!"
The Doctor ignored her as he strode up a small flight of stairs to the third floor. He put his ear up to each door and listened intently.
"Aha!" He declared, throwing open the last door on the right. "Here he is!"
The Doctor, Dean, and Clara stepped inside. Dean frowned. There wasn't much to see: a wobbly little dresser, a bed placed under a tiny window, a picture frame dangling precariously from a nail in the wall.
"I don't get it," Dean protested, "What are we doing-"
"Dean?" An old man lying in the bed shot up straight as a rail. Dean jumped. The man was so frail and scrawny that Dean hadn't noticed him there before.
"Ah! Mr. Hollingsworth, I presume." The Doctor took one of the old man's hands and shook it briefly.
The man ignored the Doctor completely and focused his gaze on Dean. "Dean, you're alive! It worked!"
"What do you mean? What worked?" Dean demanded.
"Dean," Clara piped up, "You may want to see this." She pointed to the photo on the wall. It was in black and white, and though it was blurred and faded, Dean could make out five figures outlined against a coastline. The two people on the left, though they looked a few years younger, were clearly Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth. The little boy in the middle looked strikingly familiar, though it had been many years since Dean had last seen his face. And the couple on the right, though they seemed completely foreign, could only be two people.
"My parents," Dean breathed. "The couple in the photo are my parents. And that's me. How old was I? Seven? Eight? Why can't I remember?!"
"Dean," Mr. Hollingsworth choked out, " Your parents died last year. Don't you remember? There was a terrible disease that riddled the town, but your family had it worst. You were going to die. Your parents refused to let that happen. You were only sixteen, they insisted, you had your whole life ahead of you. I was the leading physician in town for many years, and your family had been friends of mine. I was more than willing to cure you."
"So it worked, then?"
"Too well. It stopped your aging process. As far as I know, you, Dean Harper, are the world's first immortal."
"But then why can't I live past 1999?" Dean pressed. "Why do I keep getting sent back here?"
Mr. Hollingsworth looked baffled. "I don't know what you mean. It's only 1900."
Dean turned desperately to The Doctor, who shrugged. "That's a whole different mystery entirely, I guess."
Clara tapped her chin pensively. "So why does your wife despise Dean so much?"
Mr. Hollingsworth shook his head. "I only had enough of the cure to save Dean, which meant that I couldn't save my wife's brother. Ever since, she's chosen to take it out on the boy, not me. By then, I was too sick myself for her to get upset with me." He dissolved into a coughing fit and laid back down. "This illness will be the last of me soon. But if one of us could have survived, I'm glad it was you, Dean." With that, he drifted soundly off to sleep.
For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Dean took one last longing look at the photo of his parents. "So they're gone. After all these years of trying to find them, of trying to remember what they were like. . . they're gone."
Clara put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Dean."
Out of nowhere, The Doctor started bouncing up and down, clapping his hands. "Oh, this is wonderful!"
"Doctor!" Clara scolded.
"Oh, yes, I'm so sorry for your loss, Dean, but this is brilliant!" The Doctor threw his hands up in the air. "What town was it that we found you in, Dean?"
"Stone Feather, Arizona," Dean replied.
"And when did you move there?"
"August 1998."
"Oh, that is clever. That is clever!" The Doctor turned and bolted out the door and down the stairs. Dean and Clara raced to keep up. The Doctor dashed outside, hopped into the TARDIS, and waved to the two of them vigorously. "Come on! We only have ninety-eight years to spare!"