You sneak after the gingerbread men, tiptoeing across the kitchen tiles. They're surprisingly organized—marching in a line, spoon held high like a flag. They hum a little gingerbread marching song. "No crumbs left behind, we march for frosting kind!" You hide behind a chair as they climb the table leg, then the bookshelf, then leap to the floor. Suddenly one turns. "Did you hear something?" You freeze, holding your breath. A peppermint candy crunches under your foot—uh-oh! "INTRUDER!" they shout. They scatter like sprinkles in a hurricane!