The living room floor is a battlefield of mismatched toys and mystery crumbs. Jack, noble elder sibling, is building a complicated structure involving magnets and tiny wheels. He’s focused. Precise. Innocent.

Enter James.

Shirtless. Grinning. Holding a plastic tote like a medieval knight holds a trebuchet. The tote is big. The lid is slightly cracked. The intent is questionable.

Jack barely looks up. “Don’t even think about it.”

James nods solemnly. Then thinks about it.

He circles Jack like a predator in Paw Patrol pajamas. There is muttering. There is toe-wiggling. Suddenly—ATTACK. The tote drops from above like an emotional avalanche.

“YOU’RE CAPTURED!” James shrieks.

Jack: trapped. Knees up. Shoulders hunched. Facial expression: full betrayal.

“This isn’t fair,” Jack groans.
James taps the lid. “This is TOTE LAW.”

The interrogation begins. Questions like:

• “Do you have cookies?”
• “Why are you tall?”
• “Can I have your robot?”

Jack negotiates like a seasoned diplomat. He offers snacks. Stories. A new robot name.
James considers. Then tightens the lid and says, “NO DEAL.”

Mom walks in. Stops. Stares.
Jack screams, “I’ve been tote-napped!”
James grins, “I’m a box boss.”

Mom sighs the sigh of a woman who once dreamed of sleeping in and adult conversations.
She lifts the lid. Jack escapes dramatically, flopping onto the floor like a betrayed otter.

James shrugs. “We play again later?”
Jack rolls away, whispering, “Not if I see the tote first.”

But everyone knows… Tote Wars never truly end.
They just nap briefly in the hallway.