Wednesday, April 14, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7 • The week after Beau's birthday)
Red Forman's workplace smelled like hot metal, oil, and other men's frustration.
He'd been in the plant long enough to know every sound by heart: the clank of machines, the hiss of steam, the barked orders that weren't really orders so much as reminders that you were lucky to be there.
And lately, Red had been feeling something he hated.
Not tired.
Not angry.
Trapped.
Because the plant wasn't just a job.
It was a leash.
And Jack Burkhart held the other end.
Red tightened a bolt, wiped his hands, and tried not to think about the way Laurie's door had slammed Sunday, or the way Kitty's smile had looked like it might crack right off her face.
A man could handle machine noise.
Family noise was worse because you couldn't fix it with a wrench.
"Forman!"
Red's shoulders went tight.
Jack Burkhart's voice cut through the plant like he owned the air.
Red turned.
Jack stood there in a clean shirt—too clean for factory work—smiling like the world was a party and he was the host.
Jack didn't belong on the floor unless he was there to remind people he could.
"Jack," Red said, flat.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder again.
Red resisted the urge to step away.
"You got a minute?" Jack asked.
Red didn't have a minute.
But he nodded anyway. "Sure."
Jack led him toward the office section—away from the noise, into the quiet that felt like power.
Red walked beside him, jaw tight.
Jack's grin stayed bright. "How were the kids? Party was good, right?"
Red's voice was cautious. "It was fine."
Jack laughed. "Fine? My son's birthday is fine?"
Red didn't answer.
Jack's eyes narrowed—not angry, just calculating. "Beau sure liked your girls."
Red's jaw clenched. "He's a kid."
Jack waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. Kids say things. But that boy… he's got taste."
Red's stomach tightened.
Jack chuckled like he was sharing a joke. "He called one of them pretty, didn't he?"
Red's eyes hardened. "He shouldn't be talking about my daughters like that."
Jack's grin faltered for half a second—surprise, then amusement.
"Oh, relax," Jack said. "It's a compliment."
Red's voice went colder. "Still."
Jack studied him for a moment like Red was a puzzle.
Then he sighed dramatically. "You're protective."
Red didn't deny it.
Jack leaned closer, voice dropping like they were conspirators. "Which one was it?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Which one was what?"
Jack smiled. "The 'prettiest girl there.' Which one did he say it to?"
Red's jaw flexed.
He understood what Jack was doing.
Jack wasn't just curious.
Jack was collecting information—because information made people manageable.
Red's voice was flat. "Doesn't matter."
Jack laughed like Red was being silly. "Come on. Laurie? Monica? Which one got my son's attention?"
Red's hands curled into fists.
Jack didn't see it—or didn't care.
Red's voice dropped, dangerous. "They're seven."
Jack shrugged. "And?"
Red stared at him.
Jack blinked, then laughed again, and finally held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Okay, okay," Jack said. "Touchy subject."
Red's eyes stayed hard. "Yeah."
Jack's smile sharpened. "Anyway—speaking of touchy… I'm gonna need you on Saturday."
Red blinked. "Saturday?"
Jack nodded like it was already decided. "Overtime."
Red's stomach clenched again. Overtime meant money, sure—but it also meant less time at home. Less time to keep Laurie from blowing the whole house apart. Less time to keep Kitty from blaming herself for everything.
Red's voice was controlled. "I can't."
Jack's smile faded, just slightly. "Can't?"
Red held his ground. "Family thing."
Jack's eyes narrowed. The warmth dropped from his face like someone shut off a light. "Forman…"
Red didn't flinch. "I've worked every Saturday this month."
Jack leaned back, assessing. "You got bills."
Red's jaw tightened. "I handle my bills."
Jack's mouth twitched. "You sure?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Yeah."
Jack stared at him for a long moment.
Then he smiled again, too bright, like nothing had happened.
"Alright," Jack said cheerfully. "No overtime. I'll find someone else."
But his eyes said: Remember who decides what you can afford.
Red watched him walk away and felt the rage rise in his throat.
Not loud rage.
The kind that sat in your chest and ate you from the inside.
Red turned back to the machines and worked harder than he needed to.
Because that was how he handled being powerless.
He worked.
______
At home, Monica stood on a chair in front of Laurie's vanity mirror.
Laurie sat on the stool with her arms crossed, chin lifted, pretending this wasn't happening.
Kitty hovered in the doorway like she couldn't believe her eyes.
Red was already gone for work, but Kitty still moved like she was worried Red would storm in and demand to know why Laurie was letting Monica touch her hair.
Monica held a brush carefully. Her fingers were small, but her movements were deliberate. She brushed Laurie's hair in long strokes, gentle enough to avoid yanking.
Laurie flinched anyway.
"Stop," Laurie snapped.
Monica's voice stayed calm. "I'm not pulling."
Laurie's eyes narrowed in the mirror. "Yes you are."
Monica didn't argue.
She adjusted her grip and kept brushing—slower, softer, like she was taming something wild.
Laurie watched herself in the mirror with intense focus. Her vanity wasn't just vanity. It was control. If Laurie could look perfect, she could pretend nothing hurt.
Kitty whispered, like she didn't want to scare the moment away, "Monica, sweetheart… you're so good at that."
Monica answered politely. "Thank you, Mommy."
Laurie rolled her eyes. "She's not good."
Monica didn't react. "Do you want braids or curls?"
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica in the mirror, suspicious. "Curls."
Monica nodded. She didn't have curlers. She didn't have product.
But she had hands, and she had memory.
She took small sections of Laurie's hair and twisted them gently, creating soft waves the way she'd seen women do with damp hair and time. Not perfect.
But noticeably better than Laurie's usual rushed brush-and-go.
Laurie watched, fascinated despite herself.
Kitty hovered closer. "How do you know how to do that?"
Monica kept her tone mild. "I watched you."
It wasn't a lie. Kitty did her hair sometimes—just not like this.
Kitty's eyes softened with pride. "Oh…"
Laurie's voice snapped. "Don't get mushy."
Kitty laughed softly. "Okay, okay."
Monica finished the waves and stepped back.
Laurie studied herself in the mirror.
She didn't smile.
But her shoulders loosened.
Then she said, grudging and quiet: "It's… fine."
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Laurie glared. "Stop saying okay!"
Monica blinked. "Sorry."
That made Laurie pause. Like she hadn't expected an apology.
Laurie stared at herself again, then whispered—barely audible:
"Don't tell anyone you did this."
Monica's voice stayed calm. "I won't."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "And if Beau talks to you—"
Monica cut in gently. "I'll be polite. That's it."
Laurie's jaw tightened. "Good."
Kitty watched the two of them like she was watching a fragile animal approach food. Hopeful. Terrified.
Monica stepped down from the chair and washed her hands.
Kitty grabbed Monica into a quick, impulsive hug.
Monica stiffened—then forced herself to relax.
Kitty whispered into her hair, "Thank you."
Monica didn't ask for what.
She already knew.
Thank you for trying to save my family.
Monica nodded and stepped away before Laurie could accuse her of stealing Kitty too.
______
That night, Red came home with the factory still in his bones.
His jaw was set, his shoulders tight. He kissed Kitty's cheek like it was habit, not softness.
"How was school?" he asked, voice clipped.
Laurie's chin lifted. "Fine."
Red's gaze slid to Monica. "And you?"
Monica answered calmly. "Fine, Dad."
Red studied her face like he was checking for bruises.
Then his gaze flicked to Laurie's hair.
Red wasn't the type to notice style.
But he noticed difference.
"Your hair looks… less like hell," Red muttered.
Kitty gasped. "Red!"
Laurie's cheeks flushed—half proud, half furious. "It's fine."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Who did it?"
Kitty hesitated—then said quickly, "Monica helped."
Red's gaze snapped to Monica.
Monica held still.
Red's jaw tightened like he didn't know what to do with the information. Pride? Suspicion? Relief that the house wasn't actively on fire?
Finally, Red grunted. "Huh."
Then he looked at Laurie. "You say thank you."
Laurie's eyes widened, insulted. "No."
Red's voice went cold. "Yes."
Laurie's mouth tightened. She looked like she wanted to scream.
Then she forced it out, through clenched teeth:
"Thanks."
Monica nodded once. "You're welcome."
Red's gaze stayed on Laurie. "You can act like a human being when you try."
Laurie glared. "Whatever."
Red's eyes narrowed.
Kitty jumped in fast. "Okay! Dinner!"
They ate.
The meal was tense, but it didn't explode.
That was a win in the Forman household right now.
After dinner, Monica went upstairs and opened her Future Box.
She wrote:
April 14, 1965: Laurie accepted help. Transaction begins.
Dad noticed. Forced manners. Small victory.
Jack Burkhart is watching. Dad is trapped. Remember: get him out.
She stared at the last line for a long moment.
Then she added one more:
Containment rule: never let Laurie feel second best in public. Let her feel powerful in private.
Monica closed the box and lay down.
Through the wall, she could hear Laurie moving around her room—opening drawers, trying on shoes, admiring her hair in the mirror one more time.
And in the living room downstairs, Red's voice rumbled low as he talked to Kitty—tired, irritated, but not hopeless.
For tonight, the house held.
For tonight, the story didn't crack wider.
Monica let herself breathe.
Just once.
Before tomorrow came.