Calan
Calan nods at once, because if Carlo says she definitely lives there, then she definitely lives there, and it would be rude, probably, to let the lack of proof slow down a plan already showing this much promise. Crouched beside his brother with his own hands held up like binoculars, he squints hard at the building beside the clinic. "Perfect," he whispers, nodding decisively, though the word comes out with the sort of confidence usually reserved for people who know what their target looks like, where she lives, and whether she has any interest at all in being recruited by two identical strangers for pretzel-related business. None of this troubles Calan, because the plan has a crate, a window, an eventual best friend, and food at the end of it, which makes it structurally sound in every way that matters.
He lowers his hand-binoculars just enough to glance along the street, checking for crates, ladders, distracted adults, possible witnesses, and anything else that might become useful if looked at from the correct angle. "We need something sturdy," he adds, still whispering, because spying requires whispering even when nobody is close enough to hear, "and we need to look like we’re supposed to have it." Yelling sure dad, we'll grab this crate you asked for would probably do the trick.
He lowers his hand-binoculars just enough to glance along the street, checking for crates, ladders, distracted adults, possible witnesses, and anything else that might become useful if looked at from the correct angle. "We need something sturdy," he adds, still whispering, because spying requires whispering even when nobody is close enough to hear, "and we need to look like we’re supposed to have it." Yelling sure dad, we'll grab this crate you asked for would probably do the trick.
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
