It was 29 October, 1966. It was evening, and the television was on. Heather Hartnell sat in front of it, but her husband was not there. They had shown the cliffhanger – the rejuvenation, he'd called it, she thought – to the fourth episode of The Tenth Planet and he'd gotten up wordlessly and left the room. She suspected he felt the need to be alone; he'd loved Doctor Who. He'd always had faith in it, even when others had told him that he was mad for it. But he was an opinionated man, and he absolutely was convinced of what an enormous success the show would be. Neither he nor Heather could possibly know just how right he was.

Bill Hartnell was standing in his study, leaning on the wall, looking out the window. Oh, he'd had his reasons for leaving. His health. Disagreements with the big wigs. But still, it left him with a certain sadness now, to think that there was going to be another man next week running around on the television, calling himself 'The Doctor'. He'd been sold on the show from the moment Miss Verity Lambert had told him about it. The British people had welcomed him into their homes, and he'd loved being a part of it.

Hartnell looked back momentarily as he heard a familiar noise. No, that was… it must be on the television. The BBC must have decided to run something last minute about the show, maybe to explain what had just happened. Oh, it must have been quite a shock, quite a shock indeed.

Then came the knock on the door. Bill still didn't move. Heather would answer it, and answer it she did. Her voice suddenly rang out through the house.

"Bill, there's a man here to see you!"

Sighing, Bill shuffled out of his study and through the hallway.

There was a young man at the door with a rather odd face. Big chin. Not much in the way of eyebrows. Seemed a rather excitable fellow, really. His clothes were a bit odd; most men of that age dressed more modernly. This man was wearing a purple jacket, a waistcoat, and a bow tie.

"Yes, what is it? What do you want?" said Bill.

The man at his door beamed. Grinned. His face seemed to open up at the sight.

Thrusting his hand forward, the man said, "Oh, wow, you're him. You're really… him, you are. Big fan, big fan. Wow, this is… this is fab."

Bill shook the hand and said, "Well, lad, get on with it, who are you and what do you want with me? It's getting a bit late in the, in the day to be making social calls, don't you think?"

The man proudly clutched at his lapels and puffed out his chest.

He said, "Hello, I'm the Doctor."

"Nonsense," said Bill, moving to shut the door. The man, however, forced himself inside in a very forward manner.

"No, really," he said. "I am the Eleventh Doctor. And you're William Hartnell."

"Eleventh Doctor? I dare say, my boy, that you should not wander the streets alone after a trip to the pub!"

"No, no, really, I can prove it!"

The strange man grabbed Bill by the hand and began to run along. Bill was, well, not a young man, so there was considerable protesting on his part.

"Unhand me, young man, or I shall yell for the police!"

The man laughed. "No need, I've got a whole box that says police on it!"

"I said unhand m-"

The man had dragged Bill to a police box. Now, Bill had lived in Mayfair for quite a few years, and he liked to think he knew his neighborhood fairly well.

There had not been a police box here the day before. Perhaps it was new. Perhaps the man had transported it here as part of this elaborate practical joke. It certainly looked like… no. It couldn't be. Doctor Who was a fiction programme.

"I know you want to believe," said the man.

Bill shook his head. "No, you're mad. And insane, at that. Let me go home!"

The man smiled and gestured at the door. "Go ahead. Push."

Shaking slightly, Bill approached the door to the police box with some caution. He placed his hand on the left door. Wood. Police boxes were supposed to be made of concrete, but this was definitely wood.

Hesitantly, slowly, Bill pushed the door open and stepped carefully inside.