Marty had no time to yell a warning. Instinctively, he threw himself toward George, delivering a neat cross-body block that sent him free of the car. Marty himself was not so fortunate. Hitting the brakes, the driver swerved to avoid the two youngsters but succeeded only in missing George. There was a loud bump as the car’s fender struck Marty’s shoulder and head.
“Crazy kids!” the driver yelled, not in anger but in horror. “They didn’t give me a chance!”
He was nearly crying as he bent next to the young man who had saved the other’s life. “Please, God,” he prayed. “Let him be all right. I can’t afford to be sued.”
? Chapter Six ?
The next thing Marty saw after the shiny car bumper was a soft white lacy pattern, slightly out of focus, falling away from a table top. He blinked, looked around at the bedroom he had never seen before. Far away, a wall was decorated with unfamiliar pictures and pennants; to their right was a window, through which an outside street lamp poured sharp and painful light. He closed his eyes again.
His head was cold and felt the pressure of something resting on it.
“I think he’s going to be all right,” he heard a soft feminine voice say. It was a familiar sound.
“Mom? Is that you?” Marty whispered.
Gentle hands moved the cold object against his forehead, touched his cheeks.
“Shh. Everything’s going to be all right.”
It was his mother. Marty opened his eyes despite the pain but all he could see was a silhouette. The voice had been unmistakable, though.
“God, what a terrible nightmare,” he said. “I dreamt I went back in time…”
“In time for what?” the voice asked.
It was his mother, all right. Always so comfortingly literal. Marty started to sit up, but leaned back again when he experienced a slightly dizzy sensation.
“Take it easy, now,” his mother said. “You’ve been asleep for almost nine hours. Better not hop right out of bed. Better to take it slowly.”
“It was terrible,” Marty continued. “It was a terrible place to be. The music was awful—they didn’t have Huey Lewis. Our neighborhood hadn’t even been built yet, except for our house. Everything was so weird looking and the people acted so strange.”
“I see…You dreamed you went back to another time.”
“Yeah.”
“How far back?”
“Thirty years.”
“All the way to the flapper days? That must have been interesting. But there’s no need to worry. You’re safe and sound, back where you belong, in good old 1955.”
“Nineteen fifty-five!”
Forgetting the discomfort, he sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.
“Oh, my God!” he said.
The young woman was the same one George McFly had been spying on. But that was only part of it.
“What is it?” she asked, concerned.
“You’re my . . . my m—” Marty began.
“Your what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
His head fell back against the pillow.