“It has a ring of dead ,” I said.

Emmett is fixing the fence. The children are naming the horses after constellations. Please visit soon. We have installed an outhouse.

Yesterday, I saw her.

She looked up, terrified, as the rope on the left side gave way. I lunged. We fell together—not into the abyss, but onto a narrow beam just below the railings. For ten heartbeats, we hung there, the roar of the river 200 feet below.

I have rewritten the plan. The DeLorean will go back to 1985. Marty will go home. But I will not be in the driver’s seat.