(no subject)
"I'm going round to Sarah Jane's, Mum!" Clyde backs out of a door into the street, bellowing back to someone through it, bag slung over his back and a skateboard under his arm. "I'll be back-- later?"
On this less-than-decisive but horridly prophetic note, he slams the door behind him and turns to see a street that is . . . not his. Clyde squints doubtfully at it, opens the front door again, and finds that the house behind it is rather creepily abandoned but-- thankfully?-- most certainly not his own.
"Why," he demands of the city at large, more resigned than anything, "why is it always on a Saturday? Why not right before biology class when I haven't anywhere better to be?"
On this less-than-decisive but horridly prophetic note, he slams the door behind him and turns to see a street that is . . . not his. Clyde squints doubtfully at it, opens the front door again, and finds that the house behind it is rather creepily abandoned but-- thankfully?-- most certainly not his own.
"Why," he demands of the city at large, more resigned than anything, "why is it always on a Saturday? Why not right before biology class when I haven't anywhere better to be?"