The Scene: Interior suburban family home. Stacks of clothing, books, stuffed animals and various other items spill out of bedroom doors into the main hallway of the home. A preteen boy is pulling things out from under his bed as his mother sorts them. She is surrounded by piles of trash, Lego pieces, books, DVDs, colored pencils, and dirty socks. It appears to be room-cleaning day. “What about this, Mom?” the son asks, crawling out from under the bed holding a long, pointed, plastic witch nose, the kind that fits on a person’s face with adhesive tabs inside of it. “Put it in the costume box,” the mother says. The son gets up and walks out of his room. Out in the hallway, he is nearly run over by his somersaulting teen brother. The younger brother probably thinks that he might be able to get out of having to go all the way to the storage closet by pawning the witch nose off on his brother.
Younger brother (sounding enticing): Hey, you want this cool nose?
Older brother (without skipping a beat): I already have a nose.
[He continues somersaulting down the hallway.]