A/N: First:  Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou to my wonderful beta MaccasWeirdFriend.  She deserves it :0)  Also, thank you so much to all the reviewers of last chapter:  Swimmer girl 17, PurlyandGirly, NJ2001, Marvel_is_best, leah9712, Macca40, MaccasWeirdFriend, cityofstarlight, and omgringo :0)

14 August, 1965, 7:00 AM (London time). 7 Cavendish Avenue, London, England.

The morning after the funeral, Paul's alarm buzzed at 7:00. The Beatle slammed down the snooze button and sat up groggily.

Paul smiled as he heard dog nails pattering down the hallway outside his room. A canine nose pushed through the crack in his door, soon followed by the rest of his sheepdog puppy.

"Morning, Martha," said Paul, heaving himself out of bed and slipping his feet into his slippers. "You get to go stay with the Ashers today."

Martha nuzzled Paul's leg.

"I know, I'm sorry," he murmured as he crossed the hall to the bathroom. "If I could take you, I would, but I don't think you'd like it much. Too many screaming girls."

Martha sneezed. Paul laughed. "Silly girl."

He brushed his teeth as quickly as possible and leapt down the stairs two-at-a-time. Martha bounded eagerly after him.

Paul wandered into the kitchen and opened the pantry, staring bleakly at its sparse contents. "This is what happens when Jane is gone," he muttered.

Martha barked at him. He turned to see her scratching the back door.

"Oh, alright," he said. He opened the door and let Martha out. Once she came back in, he poured some kibbles into her bowl and then revisited the idea of feeding himself.

Paul grinned ecstatically when he found bacon in the fridge. He put some in a frying pan and turned on the stove. Still in his striped pajamas, he ambled to the front door and risked opening it for a quick second to grab the mail and the newspaper. Thankfully, none of the fans outside noticed.

The bassist whistled a cheery dance-hall tune as he straightened the mail into a neat pile before dropping it onto the kitchen counter. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat down at the kitchen table. Paul took his first sip of orange juice and unfolded the newspaper. Its gigantic headline sprang out at him like an unexpected punch:

BEATLES PLANE CRASH

FAB FOUR AND ENTOURAGE CRASH IN ATLANTIC OCEAN, PRESUMED DEAD

Paul choked on his orange juice. He sputtered and coughed for a second before grabbing the newspaper and staring at it. He read the headline again. And then he read it again.

This can't be right, they must have made a mistake. They can't all be dead.

Suddenly, the phone rang shrilly in the other room. Paul leapt out of his chair and raced into the living room. He snatched the phone.

"Hello?"

George Martin's voice floated distantly out of the speaker. "Is this Paul?"

"Yeah, it's me."

George breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness! I knew the press had made up that headline."

"They have?" asked Paul anxiously. "How d'you know?"

The Beatle could practically hear his producer frowning. "Have you even seen the newspapers?"

Suddenly, Paul realized what had assured George so much. "I wasn't on the plane," Paul said heavily.

For a moment, all he could hear was crackle and static.

George finally responded with a faint "Really?"

"Yeah," said Paul, biting his lip. "But it can't be right, can it? The headline, I mean."

"Has anyone called you?" asked George. "I mean, surely Brian would have informed you of such a ludicrous rumour."

Paul's heart sank like a brick in a pond. "No, you're the first . . . . Maybe it's not in the American papers –"

A shrill, squealing beep from the kitchen jolted Paul to his senses. He dropped the phone and clapped his hands over his ears, whipping around to see tendrils of smoke twisting around the doorframe. He raced back into the kitchen, where smoke was billowing out of his neglected frying pan.

Frantically, he grabbed his orange juice and tossed its remaining contents onto the burning bacon. The fire alarm continued to blare above him as he frantically filled up his glass with water from the sink and tossed it onto the ruined breakfast.

As he seized the newspaper and tried to fan away the smoke, a yelp from the living room added to the cacophony. Paul dropped the paper and skidded back into the living room, only to find Martha sitting in the farthest corner, panting and shivering. The phone was still dangling off the hook and had now begun to buzz loudly in protest.

Paul grabbed the phone and hung it up, but it instantly began to ring. Martha whimpered in the corner and the fire alarm continued to shriek in the kitchen.

Paul seized the phone and yelled into it, "Bugger off!" He slammed it back down into its receiver harshly.

Martha yelped when it rang again a split-second later. Paul yanked the phone cord out of the wall.

He looked at Martha helplessly. "I'll comfort you in a second, I promise!"

With that, he ran back into the kitchen and glared mutinously at the fire alarm. It continued to shriek. Paul grabbed the nearest available object, a heavy potted plant from the windowsill, and hurled it at the fire alarm. The device was knocked off the ceiling and abruptly silenced. The potted plant shattered, sending soil and shards of clay flying.

Paul turned to glare morosely at the sizzling newspaper in the smoking frying pan.

"This day hates me, doesn't it?" he asked the pan while he yanked open the window and tried his best to fan out the smoke.

The bassist jumped when he heard an earsplitting scream outside. Two teenage girls were peeking over the hedge from the yard next door.

"He's alive!" one of them yelled joyfully.

"Paul, we love you!" screamed the other.

Exasperated, Paul slammed shut the window. He leaned against the counter for a second, recovering his wits.

Martha! he thought suddenly. Poor girl, she's still having her panic attack!

Paul ran back to the living room, where Martha had smushed herself against the back corner. Paul hurried across the room to hug his sheepdog puppy.

"It's all gonna be okay," he murmured reassuringly, stroking her head. His eyes burned, and he buried his face in her thick fur. "It's alright." He wasn't sure whether he was talking to Martha or to himself.

1 November, 1897 - Edward Ravenhurst, 22, died suddenly in his Dartmoor manor. Sergeant Blair of Marylebone has declared the death accidental. - The London Times