"Sometimes, perhaps, we are allowed to get lost that we may find the right person to ask directions of." -Robert Brault.
The back wheels of the skateboard snagged on the third step from the bottom of the courthouse stairs due to improper weight distribution; it careened backwards and skid out from under its occupant’s feet, launching Marty McFly into the concrete below. The young boy pushed himself up, feeling tears welling in the corners of his eyes — no, he wouldn’t cry. That would only add insult to injury. But damn it, did that hurt.
“Are you alright?” Came a voice from the top of the steps. Its owner was soon beside him, having taken two steps at a time to reach him in haste.
An abstract, wild-eyed, older gentleman, with untamed curls of ivory-white hair clutching several rolls of papers under one of his arms. He dropped them on the steps as he stooped over to help Marty up.
“Y-Yeah, I’m fine, it’s nothing.” The brunette’s voice quivered.
“Nonsense. That was a nasty fall. Spectacularly nasty.” He snagged Marty by the armpits and hoisted him to his feet, bringing him to sit down on one of the steps. “You had impressive momentum going, that was until the final moments of your decent; you leaned back, applying too much pressure to the back end of your wheeled device, changing your direction. The rest was simple physics.”
Marty had no idea what any of that meant. Who was this guy?
“Tut, tut, now that, that disproves your ‘I’m fine’ theory.” The older man declared dramatically, pointing to a rip in Marty’s jeans. The skin looked like it had been torn clean away. Seeing it made it even harder for the brunette to keep those tears in check.
“An abrasion. Needs to be sterilized. Most likely won’t require stitches. Allow me to give you a ride home.”
“I can walk.” Marty protested. He didn’t mean to sound so ungrateful, he was angry at himself for his own failure.
“Yes, I am certain you can. And by walking you’ll only exercise the elasticity of your skin, causing the wound to bleed freely. It’s clotting quite nicely, now, but to walk a great distance would surely undo that.”
“Yeah, okay, fine.” Marty replied crankily.
“Here, you hold these.” The stranger collected his rolls of paper — what were they, some kind of posters? — and dumped them into Marty’s arms. With the heel of his shoe he launched the boy’s skateboard into the air and caught it — how’d he do that? — handing that to the brunette as well. He lifted Marty from the steps. “My truck is parked just over there.” He said, nodding in the direction of a large white van as he carried the smaller man.
Dr. E. Brown Enterprises
24 Hr. Scientific Services
“You’re a doctor? And a scientist? Is that why you know so much about stuff?”
“Well, yes and no. The eternal pursuit of knowledge is why I know so much about ‘stuff’, and my intellectual capacity enabled me to apply that knowledge in order to earn a doctorate’s degree.”
“So you’re Dr. E. Brown.”
“Yes, Dr. Emmett Brown.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Marty. Despite the unfortunate circumstances.” He pulled open the passenger side door and loaded Marty into the seat after knocking all the clutter onto the floor. He soon joined him in the vehicle, slamming the door shut as he took his place in the driver’s side.
“Now, you need only provide me with an addre—”
Marty was softly sobbing now. Safe in the van, away from everyone. It was somehow okay to cry in front of Dr. E. Brown.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, the endorphines will kick in soon enough and you’ll be feeling fine in no time.” He reached over, and in his gentlest manner, ran his fingers through the boy’s disheleved hair.
“I don’t know what those are.” Marty sniffled. But Dr. E. Brown must have been right, because as soon as he felt the older man’s hands in his hair he started to feel much,