Missy stole a green bean off his plate. “You’re gonna get your butt whipped on the first day.”

He handed the principal a handwritten sheet of corrections.

Upstairs, in a room as sterile as a CDC isolation ward, nine-year-old Sheldon Cooper was not playing with toys. He was building a scale model of the Large Hadron Collider out of LEGOs, a K'Nex loop, and a stolen dental mirror. On his corkboard, a hand-drawn flowchart titled “EXPERIMENTAL PROTOCOL: DETERMINING IF MY TWIN SISTER IS A SECRET ALIEN” was pinned next to a signed photo of Carl Sagan.

Missy, his twin, sat on the edge of his bed, swinging her legs. She wore a pink cowgirl hat and a look of profound boredom.

“Irrelevant. I’m in the middle of calibrating the beam path.” He didn’t look up. “Also, your metabolic rate is inconsistent with human norms. You ate three cookies in the time it took me to eat one. That’s a 300% variance.”

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