When they cross the threshold of some places, their mind shuts off and whatever nibbling of a demon that lies in wait within every child takes control. There is no longer a difference between indoor and outdoor voices; there is only CAPS LOCK. There is no longer walking or standing or sitting; there is only running, full-tilt. There is no longer patience and courtesy and manners; there is only chaos.
On a good day, they have pure, unadulterated energy coursing through their veins, urging them to maintain constant movement. Their bodies are perpetual motion machines, fueled by oxygen and chocolate milk and fishie crackers. On a good day. When they cross the threshold of some places, they become pint-sized nuclear warheads, detonated upon entry.