Thanks so much to all the reviewers since the last update: Macca40, NJ2001, MaccasWeirdFriend, InmylifeIloveLennon, PurlyandGirly, ThisBirdHasFlown, omgringo, StormerBeatsBad, cityofstarlight, Swimmer girl 17, and Crescent Moon Dancer.

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

Paul's alarm buzzed at 7:00, pulling the young man out of his dreamless sleep. The Beatle, his eyes till firmly shut, groped blindly next to him to shut off the piercing noise. His fingers only brushed against something stubbly and thick.

Groaning, he opened his eyes and looked at his hand. It was slapping the beige carpet of the floor. The piercing alarm continued to blare.

The pitter-patter of canine paws in the hall announced Martha's arrival. She trotted into the bedroom and stared down at her master, where he lay on the floor. He grimaced at the piercing shrieks from the alarm clock.

Paul pulled himself to his feet and slammed down on the alarm clock with unnecessary force. It stopped ringing. Martha cocked her head, staring up at Paul.

"Let's get a proper breakfast this time," suggested Paul. "Are you hungry?"

Martha's ears perked up and her tongue drooped out of her mouth.

Paul chuckled and followed her fluffy, wagging tail out of the bedroom and down the smooth, hardwood floor of the hall.

At the base of the stairs, the reality of the past twenty-four hours hit him with the force of a speeding car. The living room was in disarray; the telephone stand had fallen to the floor, and the carpet was wrinkled, balled up, and stretched in odd places. The unplugged telephone lay beside its stand.

I should be crying, or something, he thought, running his hand lightly across the railing of the staircase. Not laughing about my dog being hungry. What's wrong with me?

Martha barked at Paul impatiently before running into the kitchen for her breakfast.

Paul stared at the unplugged telephone in sudden realization, temporarily oblivious to his dog's eagerness.

Paul raced across the living room. His arms flailed as he nearly tripped on the disfigured rug. He skidded down to his knees next to the phone and jammed the telephone plug back into its socket.

The telephone rang with the wholesome precision of a rolled r.

Paul grabbed it and yanked it to his ear.

"Hello?" the Beatle said.

"Hi," drawled a familiar voice through the static. "I wondered when you would pick up."

"George!"

...

15 August, 1965, 7:30 AM (London time). 7 Cavendish Avenue, London, England.

Martha trotted back into the living room from the kitchen and fixed Paul with a disgruntled glare. He ignored her.

"We should find someplace to stay," said Paul into the phone. "You know, somewhere to relax, get away from it al."

"Where on earth can we possibly stay where we won't be mobbed by fans?" asked George bluntly on the other end of the telephone line. "Plus it needs to have wheelchair access, remember? Your idea is shit, Paul."

"But I know where!" answered Paul excitedly. "My great-aunt's house, remember?"

Static buzzed. Martha padded across the room and sat down next to Paul on the floor. She whimpered pitifully.

"It's a bit old manor house," replied George finally. "That's about the least wheelchair accessible place I can think of."

"But it is!" defended Paul. "She had a wheelchair, so it must be."

Martha whimpered again. Paul gestured toward her bed pointedly. Man and dog stared at each other for a second before the sheepdog reluctantly got up and followed his directions, plopping down on her dog bed with a discontented sigh.

"But how're you going to get there?" inquired Paul. "Not like you'll be flying, is it?"

"So? What can happen that's worse than what already happened?" replied George.

"So we'll fly you directly to the grounds of Corvusheim then?" confirmed Paul. "I don't like this plan."

"Ooh, 'the grounds of Corvusheim,'" replied George in a mock-posh accent. "How delightful."

Paul rolled his eyes and grinned.

...

My brother was murdered. – Vivian Ravenhurst, November 1897, Corvusheim House, Dartmoor, Devon