He didn't know why everyone is so cross with him. Can't they see it—the teacher's affair, his babysitter's eating disorder, Dad lying about working late at the office? They should thank him for showing them what they're too thick to see. Sherlock swung back and forth, ignoring the other children's sullen glares.
A wind swirls around the sandbox, raising a miniature dust devil. But it wasn't just a wind, it couldn't be, because the bushes nearby weren't affected. He kept watching as a blue box materialized and someone stepped out. Hazel eyes pepped out under slicked-back brown hair, wearing his plaid silk vest with chestnut buttons, white dress shirt and dark slacks with causal grace. "Hey, boy, where am I?"
Sherlock stared him. 25 to 30, but his eyes are older. And his box... "Do you mean when are you? 1987."
"Not where, but when? Oh, you're good," The man gestured to his box. "Let's see what you make of that."
The boy hopped off the swing and stepped up to the box, letting the door swing in. For a moment, he just stared at the leopard-print walls. "Not dimensionally consistent. The interior dimensions exceed the exterior dimensions. Could be military, I suppose, but you don't seem the military type."
And the man's quiet smile (as he would learn later) was a shout of approval. "Fancy a trip?"