Carrigan stood frozen in the doorway, tense as he held a crying thirteen-year-old in his arms. Probably not what he had been expecting to do in his line of work. The shiny white walls reminded me of a hospital room, but instead of beds, there were metal folding chairs with clothes lazily hanging off the back. I was set down in one of these as Carrigan fanned himself with his hat as he tried to sound heroic and confident.

"I'll go look for Mr. Clover." He began, clearing his throat. "I'll make sure he gets back here safe and sound, and hopefully, that everyone here will get back to where they need to be. As for you two boys, you better stay here for now, at least until that parking lot calms down. We've got nervous parents breathing down our necks, kids who don't know when enough is enough, and I'd hate to see you boys get hurt as well. I can't carry three of you." He smiled nervously at his attempt to ease the tension.

Everyone looked at him like he was an idiot.

"I'll see myself out then," he uttered before talking to Mr. Epstein. He gave him some directions, ones that implied Mr. Epstein might take a while, before they disappeared.

I looked to the clock on the wall—10:20 P.M.—and wondered why everyone was still there in the first place. They never did press conferences after concerts, and they weren't meeting anyone important, so why keep the group holed up there?

"When is that driver going to get here?" George groaned.

"Brian said soon, and you heard what the officer said. Maybe he is here, but he can't get through or something like that. We'll be back at the house before you can say 'Be-Bop-a-Lula.'" Paul replied, trying to stay optimistic.

From what I had gathered, the group had tried to leave the stadium earlier, but the getaway car's tires had been slashed before the group had come out. It would've been fine if that was the decoy, except—

"That git driving the real car came too early, made a wrong turn, and now we have no clue where the other bloody actual car is." John grunted.

That must've been the limo I had seen pull up and disappear earlier that night. Talk about having some crazy fans.

Paul stole the chair that George had been resting his feet on so I could relax my injury, cushioned by the Beatles' jackets, all folded and stacked atop one another. They were probably glad to take those sweaty things off. Ringo tried to fluff them like a pillow as I quietly thanked him. My head hung low before he put a hand under my chin, lifting it so that I had to look at him instead of at the floor.

"Hey, he's still here in the stadium, love, and he has a good sense of direction." Ringo chimed. "He just went out to find you, but he'll find his way back here, and when he does, he'll be so happy to see you."

Suddenly, he remembered something and let out a chuckle, turning towards John.

"Remember in Chicago when that cabbie drove him across the city—in the opposite direction?"

John nearly went into hysterics as I imagined Pop's face in that situation. George, Paul, and Ringo joined in as well as I imagined my father climbing into the front seat, pushing the driver aside, and flooring it to get to where he needed to be, even if he looked like a madman who didn't know much about driving. Nothing ever got in the way between Pop and work.

"I'm still surprised he showed up on time. Your father was fuming, though, and he didn't say much the rest of the night, except for telling us when he was having a ciggie break."

"Yeah, that sounds like Pop—arrrgh!" I yelled.

Paul crouched down to meet my gaze with a worried, but kind expression.

"Margie, I'm no doctor, now, but I think it would do your foot some good if we got your shoes off. Then, we can put some ice on it." His voice was quiet as if he was talking to a small child.

I was preparing to wince just at the very thought.

"If you're good," he continued. "I might play you a little song later. But you can't try to kick me or squirm around too much, alright?"

I nodded as he began gently undoing the laces. For once, the pain didn't matter for a moment as I began thinking of song ideas. Of course it had to be one that he sang, so what would it be? "All My Loving"? "And I Love Her"? My thoughts were interrupted by John, ready to remind everyone that he was the witty one.

"You can't harm his pretty face. It's his whole life, you know. He nearly had an identity crisis after his little moped accident."

Paul rolled his eyes before gesturing for Ringo to help him out. He seemed a bit nervous as he kneeled and looked at me, as if he was apologizing in advance. George was tasked with finding a first aid kit, turning to leave when he let out a yelp. Everyone turned to face him as he realized that Tom and Dave had been standing there the whole time.

"Are these friends of yours?" George asked me, smiling when I nodded.

Tom introduced himself first, extending his hand towards the man. Dave gawked at this like his little brother was insane, but he had jealousy in his eyes, I could tell.

"Nice hairdo, son. If you keep it like that, you could have your own rock and roll group someday. I was thinking about growing mine out as long as I could. Mop tops are on the way out, so it's groovy that you're letting it grow out."

"Thank you, sir." The boy replied as I watched a smile creep across his lips. "We'll make you proud, that is, when I actually get a band together."

Dave allowed himself to speak as while the two talked.

"D-Dave Lowell, big fan of yours." He flashed George a quick smile before looking as though he wanted to kick himself for being so nervous.

"Nice to meet you too. It's good that you've got those braces while you're young, otherwise, you'll end up with chipped and battered teeth like John's."

In response, John flashed a toothy grin, but I didn't see anything wrong with them. I looked and pulled back when I noticed how close to his lips I had gotten.

"They look fine, but you could use some mouthwash." I blurted out.

Dave started giggling but covered his mouth at how goofy he sounded—actually sounding a bit like Goofy. John, on the other hand, made him a bit jealous as he casually leaned back in his seat like he didn't hear me. How was always calm wherever he went? His eyes looked a bit sleepy behind his orange-tinted sunglasses until he was spooked by Paul barking at George to get a move on.

"You two come with me," the quiet Beatle ordered, disappearing farther back into the room with them behind a wall.

"He liked my hair!" Tom mouthed as he scurried by with a megawatt smile.

Paul put a hand on top of my shoe while Ringo held onto the heel, ordered to move it back as me pushed a bit forward and vice versa until they got it off. It wasn't the most pleasant experience as I flinched with each movement. I held onto the chair legs, feeling the cold metal against my clammy palms, to keep me from punching a wall.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Fretted Ringo.

I was expecting my nose to light up like it was all a game of Operation.

"I know, I know, it hurts, but I think we've almost got it." Paul murmured before my foot was freed from its saddle shoe prison.

I reached to pull down my sock before looking away after taking a look at my bruising. My foot was placed back onto the jackets as John, Paul, and Ringo looked at each other before scanning for George and the Lowells. As if on cue, George returned and presented me with an ice pack.

"Hallelujah!" I cried, wanting to leap up and give him the tightest hugs my tiny arms would allow.

"She would've died without it." John laughed, glancing at me.

"I found this left in someone's cooler back there. My hand has already gone numb, so I think it should do just fine." The ice pack smelled like a turkey sandwich, but you get what you get.

Tom and Dave reappeared with a bright red and white first aid kit, pulling out a roll of bandages and a tiny pair of scissors. They held the kit out as if it were going to be displayed in a department store window.  Paul's face lit up as he gently placed the ice pack on my ankle and snuggly wrapped it into place with the bandages. He held out his hand for someone to pass him the scissors like he was performing surgery. Dave handed it to him with a flourish, allowing Dr. McCartney to finish and admire his work.

"Can I have my song now? I know what I'd like." I put on my best innocent little girl face in the hopes that he'd say yes.

"Oh, really?" He asked, idly resting his head in his hand. He looked a bit tired as he tried to keep his eyelids from falling. "What would you like to hear?"

Before I could answer, the door to the locker room swung open. A tired-looking Pop kept a hand on the doorknob to steady himself as he wiped some sweat of his forehead. He scanned the room before finding me, suddenly kneeling by my side, hugging and kissing my cheek.

"I'm so glad you're ok, Marjorie..." He placed a comforting hand on my back before spotting my ankle. I felt his heart stop for a moment.

"We can explain, Mr. Clover," Ringo sputtered.

Pop loosened his tie and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"There doesn't seem much to explain. Let me guess, you got caught up in that mob after the show?"

I nodded while he turned towards Tom and Dave. He was too tired to yell or laugh at their nervous expressions. He knew that they were innocent in all of this.

"Relax," he reassured them. "I guess I was wrong. I shouldn't have let you boys around her. She's a wild one, I'll tell you that."

I grinned as we had a little laugh. I couldn't resist looking at the clock, which made everyone else look, reminding us that we were still stuck here.

"Well, hopefully Brian'll be back soon." Pop sighed. "I'd hate for us to have to stay here overnight."

Everyone groaned in unison.

•     •     •

The clock above our heads ticked away as time seemed to move as slow as molasses. To keep ourselves entertained, Paul began to pluck the strings of his Fender Esquire. I had chosen my song, and was rewarded with hearing him play "Michelle."

I had gotten a bit tired, so it turned into more of a lullaby than a something to sing along to. I let myself disappear into a French countryside as I became the beautiful Michelle he sang of. I could ride a bicycle along the Seine and eat delicious pastries. I looked over at Tom and Dave, sitting on the floor by Paul as he played.

"You don't have to stay..." I yawned.

"No, I want to know that you guys are safe."

Dave rose to his feet, his eyes going wide as held his brother by thr shoulders.

"Tom! I've got it!" He whispered, pulling his brother aside. They two murmured to each other before they turned back to us, smiling widely. I shot up and nearly fell out of my chair.

"Let's take our car!" They cheered.

The Beatles turned to Dave, suprised to hear him say something without stuttering. Pop put hand to his forehead, calling himself a dope for forgetting.

"You'd really do that for us?" Paul asked, shaking his hand as a sign of thanks.

I chose that moment to snap Dave's picture.

"Of course we would," Tom smirked as the flash went off. "You guys are the Beatles! It might be a little cramped, but it should do just fine. We parked a bit far, so just sit tight, ok?"

"Well, then, you better get a move, then." Said John. "Hup, two, three, four! Hup, two, three, four!"

Tom rolled his eyes as they marched out the door, snickering to each other

•     •     •

My short nap was interrupted by Mr. Epstein, who nearly swung the door off its hinges.

"Boys! Boys! We've got a car!"

"That's great, Eppy," replied Ringo, "but we've got a car. Two of Margie's friends are gonna help us out."

"Well that was very nice of them, but we can't stay here much longer. I heard footsteps on my way over, and I think some fans have found their way in. We've got to go."

Pop nodded and lifted me up before we were out in the hall, running for our lives with only John, Paul, and George's guitars to protect us. No one was coming, but they didn't know that. It was like we were in Help!, being chased by the mad scientists on the beach. Pop forcefully kicked open the marked "EXIT" without a second thought. Mersey Me.

We rushed out into the night with our ticket to freedom just sitting there. The tires weren't slashed, which was a relief.

     Paul rushed to open the door passenger side door, but nearly fell back as we heard high-pitched screams come from the car. Two girls stuck their heads out as they held onto each other tightly.

     "He came! He actually came!" The one with brown curls cried.

     "I told you it was worth it to wait." The other, dressed head to toe in bright red, cried. "I'm Mary, and this is my best friend, Lisa. We're big fans of yours, Paul."

     "Will you sign my guitar?" Lisa asked excitedly, holding up her little wooden instrument. It had the Beatles's faces painted on its body as well as the band's name.

     Paul's shoulders slumped as the world seemed to stop for just a moment. For once, you could hear the crickets and cicadas chirping the background. He apologized to the girls, but refused their pleas. If it wasn't obvious to them before, his yawning should've been a dead giveaway. I could tell he was trying to be gentle with them and spare their feelings, saying, "I'm sorry" a lot. You could see their hearts sinking in their chests the moment they realized that they wouldn't have their way. They were quiet at first, nodding politely like this all might blow over, but that was before they shrieked like banshees.

     "Oh, boy..." Ringo sighed, as if this was a regular thing that happened.

     "Girls, please," Paul pleaded, occasionally shooting us worried looks.

     The girls rushed out of the car and threw themselves onto him, leading Paul yell and run around the lot with his fans wrapped around his waist. Their cries summoned more fans, who creeped out of the shadows, wide-eyed as they wondered if they were really seeing who they were really seeing. The dark bags under their eyes made them look like they came right out of a horror movie.

     The teenage ghouls, including a few more boys than the usual crowd of fans, marched toward us, clutching records, photos, and any other Beatles gear they had. The two girls from before had now joined them in an effort to corner us. We began to slowly back away as I held tightly onto Pop's shirt, thinking that I was going to cry myself.

     "Christ, how long have they been out here?" John screeched, eyeing the limo the girls jumped out of. He looked ready to use his guitar as a weapon.

     George looked as if he had an idea, and my heart raced as I gave him a curious look. He looked over his shoulder at John and whispered something to him, who passed it on to Pop. Pop's eyes lit up as he held me a bit tighter and closer to his chest.

     When John gave him a subtle nod, we charged through the line of fans like the calvalry, and I shut my eyes so I didn't have to stare into their creepy-looking eyes. I could feel Pop's arms being pulled on as I heard the car door open.

     I was set down in the front seat with my foot relaxing on the dashboard as the Beatles squeezed into the back and slammed the door shut. Mr. Epstein and Pop slid in on tbe driver's side with Mr. Epstein at the wheel. The fans smashed against the windows, moaning like exhausted zombies as they knocked against the windows.

     "Start the car, Brian! What are you waiting for? They're going to break in!" Yelled Pop.

     Mr. Epstein searched the car with a panicked look. He ducked his head under the seat and rifled through the glovebox. An empty bag of potato chips crinkled under his thigh as he moved his body. His hands shook as he gripped the steering wheel, staring off into the distance like he might snap.

     "The ignition key... it's gone. We're stuck!"

      Even though they didn't stick their heads up, the guys were probably shaking in their Beatle boots. Everyone in the car let out a sigh or a nervous whimper, even a tough guy like Pop, as we feared for the worst.

     "Can I please go home to my mummy now, please can I?" Ringo softly sobbed.

     When I thought all hope was lost, car tires screeched in the distance, growing louder as it rounded the corner. I shielded my eyes from the blinding headlights as even the crazy fans stopped to have a look. The driver honked their horn three times as a faint voice called out for us.

     "Margie!" The figure stuck his head out the passenger window, waving his hat in the air.

     "Tom! Dave!" I cheered, telling the boys the good news.

    "Thank God!" John whooped, poking his head up forst.

     "Come on! Come on!" Mr. Epstein waved then out before the fans could realize what was going on. I was scooped up by Ringo as we made a mad dash for the Chevy Bel Air.

     "There they go!" A fan cried, leading the pack across the lot to the car.

     If I thought Dave was nervous driving down, then I hadn't seen true fear yet. Tom swung the door open as the Beatles dove into the back without caring if they hurt themselves. I crawled up front, sandwiched inbetween the Lowells as Dave cut the wheel all the way to the right and floored it.

     "Hold on tight!" He warned as the car zoomed down the lot, nearly hitting the stadium wall as he turned the corner.

     Everyone screamed as he steadied the car and avoided hitting any of the lampposts. He pulled the car over and kept his foot on the gas pedal. For a moment, I was worried that he might've been sick.

     "I can't believe I just did that..." Dave gasped, gazing at his reflection in his sideview mirror like he had transformed into a new man. "I'm a daredevil!"

     As Dave celebrated his bravery, Tom turned to find the Beatles sitting upright in the backseat, unaware of their fans lurking behind them.

     "Yeah, that's nice and all, Dave, but you better keep going. We've got company on our hands!"

     It took Dave a moment to snap himself out of his little trance before shufting the gear into drive. By then, a girl had flung herself onto the trunk, holding on to the sides as her little friends tried to climb aboard.

     I held onto Tom without thinking and blushed when he held back onto me. But I didn't have time to worry about being that close to a boy as I heard a police siren wailing behind us.

     "Oh, jeez!" Dave yelped. "What if they try to pull us over?"

     "Relax, Dave," I replied. "Maybe they're more concerned about the kids hanging off the back."

     I couldn't resist taking a peek. That was when I realized that Pop and Mr. Epstein hadn't climbed in. They couldn't fit if they tried, seeing as how the Beatles looked a little too close for comfort, but now was not the time to worry about Pop. We were being tailed as the window flashed red and blue, even startling the fans. Whoever was driving had stuck his head out the window and talked into a megaphone.

     "Chevy Bel Air, pull over! What do you kids think you're doing??"

     Dave swallowed hard; his tan face turning