Medford, Texas — 1985
The numbers wouldn't stay still.
They crawled across the ceiling of Sheldon Cooper's bedroom, rearranging themselves no matter how tightly he shut his eyes. Prime numbers marched in neat columns. Irrational ones refused to behave, stretching endlessly, taunting him with their lack of pattern.
Sheldon opened his eyes with a sigh.
The digital clock on his bedside table glowed 3:12 A.M.
Too early to get up.Too late to pretend sleep was still an option.
At five years old, Sheldon Lee Cooper already knew two things with absolute certainty:
Sleep was inefficient.
Texas summers were hostile to rational thought.
The fan in the corner clicked unevenly as it spun, producing a sound pattern that repeated every seventeen rotations. Sheldon had counted. Twice.
He sat up, feet dangling above the floor, pajama pants riding up his ankles. The carpet felt wrong—too rough, inconsistent in texture. He curled his toes reflexively, then stopped himself. That led to distraction, and distraction led to mistakes.
Mistakes were unacceptable.
Sheldon slid off the bed and padded quietly into the hallway, careful to step only on the darker wood panels. The lighter ones creaked. He had mapped the floor three weeks ago after being scolded for waking his father during a "very important football dream."
The house was dark, but Sheldon didn't need light.
He knew exactly where everything was.
The kitchen welcomed him with silence and the faint hum of the refrigerator. He climbed onto a chair, then onto the counter, retrieving a legal pad from the top of the fridge. His mother had put it there deliberately, believing the height would discourage him.
It hadn't.
Sheldon laid the pad flat and reached for a pencil, already half-used.
He began writing.
If the universe began with a singularity…
He paused.
The equation didn't feel complete.
Sheldon frowned, small forehead creasing.
The Big Bang Theory—as currently understood—relied on assumptions that made Sheldon deeply uncomfortable. Assumptions were lazy. Reality obeyed rules, whether humans understood them or not.
He tapped the pencil against the paper.
"What if," he murmured, "there were constants… beyond observable physics?"
The refrigerator hummed louder.
Sheldon froze.
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing at the appliance.
"You're fluctuating," he told it sternly. "Please stop."
The refrigerator did not comply.
Sheldon sighed.
Adults rarely did either.
He returned to his work, sketching shapes now—hexagonal lattices, energy absorption models, materials that bent rather than broke. He didn't know why these ideas interested him so much. They simply did. They felt… elegant.
A metal that absorbed force.
Stored it.
Released it without degradation.
Sheldon's pencil scratched faster.
"That's impossible," he whispered. "Unless…"
Unless physics itself had been rewritten.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Sheldon stiffened.
"Shelly?"
Mary Cooper stood in the doorway, robe pulled tight, hair messy from sleep. Her eyes went immediately to the clock, then to the paper, then to her son standing barefoot on the counter.
She closed her eyes.
"Lord, give me strength."
Sheldon turned, bright-eyed. "Mother, I've discovered a potential flaw in the current understanding of energy conservation."
Mary rubbed her temple. "Baby, it's three in the mornin'."
"Yes," Sheldon agreed. "Which makes it an ideal time for thinking. There are fewer interruptions."
She walked in, lifting him gently off the counter. "You need rest. Your brain needs rest."
"My brain does not," Sheldon corrected. "It is operating at peak efficiency."
She tucked him against her side anyway, pressing a kiss to his hair. "You sound just like your daddy."
"That is statistically unlikely," Sheldon said. "Father does not enjoy mathematics."
Mary laughed softly despite herself.
As she carried him back down the hall, Sheldon's gaze drifted to the living room television, dark and silent. Earlier that evening, a news report had flickered across the screen—something about international unrest, stolen artifacts, whispers of advanced technology that didn't belong anywhere on Earth.
Sheldon hadn't forgotten.
Patterns mattered.
Mary set him back in bed, pulling the blanket up to his chest. "No more thinkin' tonight."
Sheldon stared at the ceiling again, numbers already reforming.
"Mother?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, Shelly?"
"Do you believe God can change the laws of physics?"
Mary hesitated.
"I believe God can do anything."
Sheldon considered that.
"Then," he said, "that explains a great deal."
Mary smiled, brushing his hair back. "Go to sleep."
She turned off the light.
Darkness returned—but Sheldon's mind did not slow.
Somewhere far away, in a land hidden behind illusion and vibranium, another child slept beneath stories of gods and meteors.
And in the vast, uncaring universe, forces older than stars waited patiently.