"We drove hours and hours for this?" Marty remarked.
"You said you wanted to see him," Rosalie responded.
"There's not much of him left."
"You've noticed."
Edward lay on the nursing home bed, gazing at the wall above the TV. The TV was on but the intricacies of "Days of Our Lives" were merely color and noise to him.
"The doctors say it's not Alzheimer's, but it's another dementia, and I'm not sure there's really a difference," Rosalie said.
"Do your step-kids ever visit?"
"No one visits a place like this. I only come here to make sure there aren't any bed sores. They're so understaffed, they can only take care of the patients who have someone to complain for them."
"You think he would have gone back in time if he knew he'd end up like this?" Marty asked.
"He's eighty-five. I'm seventy. Neither of us expected to be young if the trip worked."
"Are you happy to be seventy?"
"Not particularly," Rosalie shrugged. "When I woke up this morning - well, I woke up, and that alone was new. Everything hurt. And smelled. And I looked like the crypt keeper until at least thirty minutes of grooming and that's not even counting the hair. And I'm still not cute." She turned to Marty. "How do you put up with this flesh bag? Seriously. I think I was viewing the whole thing through rose colored glasses."
"Do you know where your time travel machine is?" Marty asked.
"Yes."
"Do you want to go back to the timeline where Hill Valley is a suburban hell and you're kinda hot?"
"Absolutely."