John isn't really sure what he's expecting. If he thought about it, he'd realize how hard it is to prove something like that, especially without much warning. Maybe Mr. Keane could tell him something about himself that only he would know. But if he really was friends with him as an adult, would they have talked about when they were kids? Is that normal? The only thing he can think of that he wouldn't tell anyone but a friend is the book, but that doesn't mean they would've talked about it for sure.

He definitely isn't expecting Mr. Keane to pull a small, slim device out of his pocket and offer it to him. John takes it without thinking, his eyes widening at the not heavy, but still substantial weight of it resting against his palm. Almost the whole front of it glows, except for a frame around the edge, and he quickly realizes that he's looking at a screen that isn't so different from the one on his television. But the picture is bright and crisp — when he stands too close to his telly, he can see the little colored squares that make up the larger picture, and this isn't like that at all. It's also different because it's covered in fingerprints; he wasn't supposed to touch the television screen, but it's clear that this one gets prodded at all the time. Much like Mr. Keane just did, he supposes.

John knows that he and his grandmother don't have the newest things. But he doesn't think anybody in Bournemouth has something like this. It looks like the sort of thing you'd see in science fiction, not real life.

He gives the screen an uncertain poke, and nearly drops the device when the screen changes, a new image filling the frame. It's a weather report, he realizes. "Bloody hell," he whispers, forgetting himself completely.